


We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This

by random_flores



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not just a pair of glasses that keeps Brittany S. Pierce from noticing that her hapless best friend and colleague is actually the superhero of her dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catch Me Now (I'm Falling)

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I was asked to flesh this out and make this an actual story so here’s my trying. Updates will probably not be as frequent as I’d like. I still have a LOTS Seeker that I’m finishing and work quite frequently usurps any plans I usually have for writing. Still, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Notes 2.0 : I’m not using any comics or even the DC universe as a template. There is some Smallville influence. So let’s instead say we’re inspired by the Superman world, but not limited to its mythos. Purists, please forgive me.

\--

“Heroes are made by the paths they choose, not the powers they are graced with.”  
\- Brodi Ashton

The honest truth is that despite the fact that Santana Lopez is pretty much invulnerable by human standards, she considers herself quite weak. 

She’s terrified, you see, and feels so out of control all of the time. She didn’t choose this life. She didn’t choose to be so obviously _different_. 

And the costume. _GOD_. She wouldn’t have chosen the colors blue and red, and she sure as hell wouldn’t have picked spandex or a cape (that shit gets caught in _everything_ ), or even the ridiculous boots that makes her look like a go-go dancer. The Superwoman costume is something she was given at an age she considers barely old enough by a Kryptonian who goes by the name Superman and Clark Kent. 

He’s the stranger who rescued her, literally flew her to Kansas farm country when she was still a child and called her ‘cousin’. 

All that he left behind was a pair of rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses. As he gave them to her, he made a joke about hiding in plain sight. He left her then in the company of a kind woman named Martha Kent. His mother. 

He disappeared soon after. Martha would cry when she thought Santana couldn’t hear her. She would hear rumors and hushed phone conversations. Where had the superheroes gone? Then the visits started from a woman named Chloe Sullivan, who presented herself as her mentor and called her special, even when Santana herself crumpled in her own self doubt and called herself a freak. Chloe absorbed every angry comment Santana threw at her and taught her the mythos of Superman – the mantle she had been given. 

As Santana grew older wearing those glasses became second nature, so much so that she actually feels a little naked and scared without them and in retrospect it’s kind of stupid, isn’t it? To think that a pair of glasses and a way of carrying oneself will so directly affect a person that they don’t see someone’s true self even when it’s right in front of them? 

It astounds her. 

The point is that Santana didn’t choose to be Superwoman. That was chosen for her, not because she is all that heroic (truth is, Santana is actually kind of a bitch), but because she had the lucky one-in-a-billion chance of being a Kryptonian refugee. 

Her mythos is a facade, and she resents it. She isn’t Superwoman, not really. Superwoman is a costume, a job and a mask she puts on every time she takes off her glasses. Superwoman does not exist, except in moments such as these – as she wills this world to slow down, and she processes. 

Chaos happens around her – men are shouting and pointing and beside her Brittany Pierce shouts for her to follow as she turns and races for the stairs. Santana hears the pop of a gunshot. It sounds like an explosion. 

“God-dammit, Brittany!” she breathes, but there’s a smirk on her face. Brittany Pierce is damn infuriating and walks around with a certain death wish. The woman is frustrating and brilliant and ALWAYS TAKING THE DAMN STAIRS. 

Santana Lopez, citizen of Metropolis, deliberately removes her glasses and begins to work at the buttons of her blazer before she turns with a speed that’s faster than the bullet currently speeding at her towards the men who have begun to give chase. 

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, she breaks her heel. 

\--

Really, truly, sincerely – Brittany S. Pierce, intrepid reporter, doesn’t expect to make a habit of toppling off the tops of Metropolis skyscrapers. She didn’t even consider it a potential _hazard_ when she was contemplating making the move to the big city. Her parents’ fears were more like getting robbed in the dead of the night or getting hit by a cab… or maybe possibly being taken hostage and sold into the underground slave trade. 

Not that those things haven’t actually happened, because they totally have. Bad things just sorta happen to Brittany S. Pierce. Mostly because when she was robbed or hit by a cab or taken hostage, she had sorta planned on it for the story she was working on. And she got nominated for a Pulitzer because of the slave trade thing so… 

This whole flinging herself off a building thing?

Not really part of the story.

To be fair, she should have known better than to climb UP the stairs to run away from the bad guy, and maybe she should have checked the auto flash on her phone before she took those pictures of the deal going down, and maybe she should have looked where she was going instead of behind her at the thug giving chase when she sprinted across the top of the building and suddenly ran out of roof. 

Because God knows this isn’t the first time this has happened. Brittany knows there’s a lot of merit in having actual hindsight. 

Instead she flops forward, scraping her calf on unforgiving brick before a scream begins to wrench out of her throat and she’s nose diving fast toward a cement street that’s more than two hundred feet down. 

No matter how many times this has happened (Brittany’s counted like… three times), Brittany always waits for her life to flash before her eyes before she’s flattened like a pancake. It never actually happens though because right on schedule, Brittany’s snatched out of the air.

Her scream turns into an undignified yelp. 

The person carrying her just curls her body in tighter and chuckles, “We _have_ to stop meeting like this, Miss Pierce.” 

Brittany, who up until this moment had clamped her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to actually see herself die, blinks and after a bewildering, heart stopping intake of breath registers that she’s now wrapped securely in the arms of a gorgeous woman in blue and red spandex. 

“Oh…” is all she can quite manage, because it’s Superwoman, of course, who has her. Gorgeous, olive-skinned Superwoman, with dark mysterious eyes and perfect kissable lips and … really hot cleavage. “Hi,” she whispers, and tightens her grip around the always surprisingly delicate shoulders. 

“Hi,” Superwoman says back. They’re floating now, as gently and softly as a deflating balloon, back down towards the street. “Miss Pierce, why do you keep falling off buildings?”

“Oh,” she says again, and flushes, embarrassment bringing her out of her momentary lust-induced stupor. “Um… I never actually do it on purpose. Why do you keep catching me?” she asked, as though this is somehow a problem (It’s really, really not). 

Superwoman arches an eyebrow, and resettles Brittany’s weight, causing Brittany to squeak and cling tighter. “It’s kinda my thing,” she answers. 

“Oh,” Brittany says a third time, breathless now, because her heart is beating terribly fast. “Right. I guess.” 

“You had some bad men chasing you,” Superwoman says gravely, and when Brittany blanches, she adds reassuringly, “Don’t worry about them.” 

Brittany doesn’t. Not because she shouldn’t be, but it’s really hard to worry about anything when she’s fighting every impulse she has not to bury her fingers in Superwoman’s super hot dark flowing locks and plant her lips against hers. “Thank you?” 

Superwoman just _looks_ at her, and it’s frightfully distracting because Brittany can’t help but look back because Superwoman is freaking gorgeous and just… super. “You’re welcome, Miss Pierce,” Superwoman says, in that gravely low voice that makes Brittany shudder. “Trust me, it’s always a pleasure.” 

It’s only then, as Superwoman untangles herself from Brittany’s clutch, that Brittany realizes that they’re back on solid ground. There’s commotion around them, because there always is with Superwoman around, and Brittany finds she can do nothing but stand with shaky legs. 

“You okay?” she hears Superwoman ask, holding her steady. With a muted sigh, she nods, and watches in silence as Superwoman’s fingers untangle from hers. “Stay off rooftops, Miss Pierce,” she warns with this sexy smirk on her face, and then she’s doing that Superwoman thing she does where she flies off, leaving Brittany a horny and besotted mess in her wake. 

“Brittany. Brittany!” Brittany blinks, shaken out of her daze when she realizes that her perpetually absent partner, Santana Lopez, looking as unkept as ever in her ill-tailored suit, is hobbling toward her with a busted heel and glasses perched crookedly on her nose. “Are you okay?!” 

Brittany finds herself biting down a sigh. “What happened? Where did you go?!” 

“I tripped!” Santana explains, waving her shoe at her. “Busted my heel! Lucky thing too. The guy fell right over me and – “ 

“Okay,” Brittany dismisses, because that’s all she really needs to know. There is no one in the world as clumsy as Santana. Even though the other woman has proven to have a way with words and a remarkably quick tongue, she navigates the world like she’s literally just inhabited it and has had to relearn every single basic form of human interaction. 

“What happened to you?!” Santana asks as she falls into step with her, heading towards Main Street. She’s quite the sight, hobbling with one heel on and off, flyaway hair escaping from the severe bun Santana always wears it in, making it look like she’s grown a horn. Brittany might think it’s even a little adorable, but the flyaway thought is quickly blasted away with the phantom sensation of Superwoman’s arms around her, lips so close and kissable…

“I fell off the roof,” she answers simply. 

“What, again?!” 

“Yep. Superwoman caught me.” 

She dimly hears Santana stumble, and without looking reaches out to steady her. “Well… that’s nice of her… to keep doing that.” 

Still gripping Santana, Brittany falters and stares up at the sky. “Yeah,” she admits. “It’s kinda her thing.” 

“Wow,” Santana breathes, and it’s so awestruck and cute she may as well have said, ‘Golly’, but Brittany decides suddenly she doesn’t want to talk about her latest encounter. This habit she has of falling off of rooftops… it’s private – between her and Superwoman, and though Santana Lopez, with all her dorkish charm, may be turning out to be maybe the best friend she’s ever had, she’s not quite ready to share that with her. 

“Let’s go,” she says, holding up her phone triumphantly. “I’ve got our latest scoop right here! We’ve got pictures to publish and a story to write! Come on!” she snaps, when Santana dawdles, fiddling with the button on her blazer. “Why are you always a step behind me?”

Santana looks at her, a wispy and sweet smile on her face, like she’s got some sort of a secret. “It’s kinda my thing,” she drawls, and then half jogs to catch up. 

\--

Coming to Metropolis was another one of those things that was more or less decided for Santana. It was either that or Gotham, and yeah… big no thank you to that. 

Chloe got her the apartment, the interview with Perry, and a new pair of glasses with rectangular frames, sturdy enough to withstand the countless times she would need to tear them off her nose and stuff them in some corner pocket while she faced off with a villain or helped a damn cat out of a tree. 

“You can do this,” Chloe told her, and Santana has often wondered if she meant the part about her being a superhero or the part where she has to spend most of her life hiding behind those glasses and overemphasizing the human clumsiness that seems as dramatic as kabuki. 

She finds enjoyment in the little things: heat that warms but doesn’t burn, the laughter of a child that inhabits its entire soul, the purity of words that are written in such a way that for a moment she’s transformed into just another citizen of Metropolis, who can go to a cat show and laugh at the pure hilarity of it. 

It’s an article that she wrote with a bit of tongue in cheek fun, taking a chance to stray away from the factual sternness that seems to be _The Daily Planet_ ’s regular tone. 

“This is good,” Perry tells her, in that gruff voice that she finds particularly soothing. He leans back away from the monitor, giving her a studious, hard look. “Wouldn’t think it to look at you, but you’re funny as hell. Makes me wonder why the hell you’re futzing around after Brittany Pierce trying to be an investigative journalist when the hard truth is you’re a columnist, Santana.” 

And maybe that’s true. Santana writes with humor, not facts. Brittany is the objective one, who with all her lofty ideology, is surprisingly strict with her format. Though they’ve been partnering on stories only a few months, Santana has come to learn Brittany’s style is all about exposing the dark elements of the city, and representing those who cannot be represented. Santana, with her alien nature, finds the quirks of humanity endlessly fascinating. 

But it’s not what inspires her. 

She shuffles on her feet and stands unevenly, reminding herself with an uncomfortable wince that once again she’s managed to break a heel in her over enthusiastic rescue of Brittany earlier that day.

Perry just keeps staring at her, and so Santana offers what she thinks may be a meek shrug. “Doesn’t everyone want to feel like they matter?” 

“Course they do,” he agrees and sighs. “But Lopez, there’s a reason why Pierce is such a damn good investigator. She’s got… balls. Metaphorically,” he adds hastily, when the phrasing puts such a picture in Santana’s head she finds herself nearly going cross-eyed. “Takes a look at trouble and runs headlong into it. You… you take one whiff of smoke and turn back in the other direction.” 

He’s actually being specific. Santana remembers that instance quite vividly. It was the second time Superwoman had caught Brittany Pierce after she quite literally got blown off a roof by gust of incendiary air. “To be fair, sir. That one time was because I had dropped my glasses, and truth is I’m blind as a bat without them-“ 

“Santana.” The editor reaches over; his warm, sweaty hand stops her rambling with a press against her forearm. “I’m not saying you and Pierce don’t make a good team. You make a great team. It’s a yin and yang sorta thing. But Pierce has had partners come and go, and the truth is – she always prefers to work alone. You’ve been here nearly a year now and all you’ve done is given yourself second billing on her byline.” 

He’s doing it to be kind. Santana knows that. He’s taking that hick small town reporter with an ounce of talent and trying to nurture it, something most editors wouldn’t even care to do. And he’s right. Stellar careers don’t get made playing when you’re playing second banana to the star reporter of The Daily Planet. 

But it’s hard to be any sort of ambitious or want any sort of spotlight when her alter ego is the lead headline on any given day. And that special place where Brittany Pierce lives … it’s beautiful but it’s ten times easier to catch her when she flings herself off a building if Santana is there right before it happens. 

_”I wish I could say it won’t be lonely,”_ Chloe told her before she left, with the moistness of tears in her eyes. _”But you have to find your own way, Santana. Make your own choices. Find your own home. One that you choose.”_

Metropolis isn’t like Smallville. It’s gritty and dirty and Chloe, as usual, was right. It’s lonely. 

Santana makes her way slowly to Perry’s office window, the clear glass from which he can keep an eye on the entire bull pen. Through the blinds, she catches sight of the distracted form of Brittany S. Pierce, who chews on the end of her rainbow colored pen and squeezes a ball of Silly Putty. 

Brittany, who always looks at her like she knows her. Like she’s known her all her life. Who flings herself off rooftops and never, ever breaks a heel. 

“Maybe second billing on those stories means more to me than a byline on a gossip column, Chief.” 

He sighs, loud and obnoxious. He’s noisy as he lifts up out of his chair and reaches around her, pulling on the blinds until their wide open and Santana’s vision is suddenly unobstructed. “You know, it seems like yesterday when that place was filled with typewriters and copy boys. We had Lois Lane and Superman. Now we got blogs and our distribution is down and Superman’s a girl! Everything’s changing. I’m an old man in a new world and sometimes it’s like I can’t keep up.” 

Her lower lip catches between her teeth, letting his words sink in. 

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he finally sighs. “You have potential. You’re a born leader, Santana, and I see that fire in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. But you’re hiding it. And I’ll be damned if I know why. It’s all well and good to follow Pierce around but at some point… you gotta be your own hero.” 

It takes effort, to paste on that silly, clueless smile, and when she shoves her glasses up her nose, Santana has to be deliberately careful not to crack them with the force. 

\--

There’s a deadline that’s coming way too quickly, and a story that needs to be written that her editor has been on her ass about all afternoon. In front of Brittany is a screen with a half written article and a little black dash that blinks mockingly at her, reminding her that she’s been stuck in writer’s block hell for the past hour. 

Brittany sucks in a harsh breath and curls her fists around the piece of Silly Putty in her hands, feeling it squish between her fingertips as she doodles on a post it with her other hand. 

No one said this job would be easy, but Brittany knows that for her, it’s harder than it would be for most. She’s got the piece of paper to prove it, with a psychologist’s fancy signature scrawled across it that assures her that she’s not stupid, her brain just works differently than other people. It’s as small a comfort now as it was back in high school. 

But then again Brittany always has had something to prove. That chip on her shoulder that makes her seem like a cold hearted bitch to people who don’t know better got its first layer in high school, when she was told over and over again from students and teachers alike that she just wasn’t smart enough, that her grades would improve if she just didn’t show up to class. 

Silly, pretty Brittany. If she only had a brain. 

Bullied and branded the class idiot has only left Brittany damned determined to prove them wrong, and she has. So what if hard core journalism is considered a dying industry? Brittany has made the profession her bitch. 

Getting the story is easy. Well… in relative terms. She’s come away with yet another near death experience and yes, perhaps she’s had quite enough of thugs chasing her down, but even now, it’s kinda hard not to consider it a fair trade what with winding up in Superwoman’s arms yet again AND getting the scoop. Writing it down? That’s her obstacle. Sometimes the words come, but most of the time, her brain just refuses to cooperate. Spell check and the built in thesaurus have long been her companions and life savers, but it can only take someone so far. The rest? Brittany literally has to squeeze from her brain, with as much force and vigor as she is currently squishing her Silly Putty. 

Today, her mind seems determined to remain stubborn in its obsessive flashback of gorgeous brown eyes and the pressure of strong, slender limbs against her waist. 

“You broke out the Silly Putty. Must be serious.” 

Brittany frowns, momentarily annoyed at the interruption until she discovers Santana carefully placing a steaming cup of green tea next to her mouse, offering her a sympathetic smile. 

Santana Lopez, she’s come to learn, makes it very difficult for everyone to stay annoyed with her at all. Brittany blames it on that smirk and that curious look in those dark eyes. 

Brittany takes the opportunity to stretch, feelings the bones of her spine pop back into place, an indication that she’s been sitting here wordless for way too long. “Look who’s talking,” she teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on your own story?”

Behind those black, rectangular wire rimmed glasses, her Daily Planet colleague just arches a bemused brow. “You mean the human interest piece on the Cat Show? That gripping and informative piece of insight into the deep and personal human-feline bond? Finished and dropped off to Perry ten minutes ago,” she shrugs, and Brittany bites her lower lip in a moment of jealousy. 

“I wanted to go to the cat show,” she admits. 

“Really?” 

“Lord Tubbington III would have had fun.” Santana’s eyes flicker over to the framed photo of Brittany’s scrawny ginger of a cat currently situated on Brittany’s desk. He’s a far cry from the massive lovable oaf that was Brittany’s first Lord Tubbington, but he seems to have inherited his love for cheese and the occasional need to get high. “Maybe seeing all those cats would bring him out of his shell and convince him that just because he has nipples doesn’t mean he’s any less male.” 

“Isn’t Lord Tubbington a girl?” 

“He’s transgender,” Brittany informs the other woman gravely. “And very sensitive about it. I keep waiting for his balls to come in so I can go to the vet and chop them off, but I think he’s caught on and hides them from me.” 

The sentence hangs in the air, and Brittany finds herself flinching. 

This is the problem with Santana. The longer she works with her, the more Brittany comes to consider her a friend and forgets herself too easily. The voice in her head that tells her to SHUT THE FUCK UP goes away and she slips and then… this happens. 

Santana just stares at her with a blank, surprised expression that reminds Brittany of the way so many of their colleagues looked at her before every Pulitzer-nominated story she wrote was dismissed as a fluke and they stopped taking her seriously.

It’s funny, because she should be used to it by now. Truthfully, she’s been waiting for this moment since she and Santana met those many months ago. Maybe Santana is unseasoned and her sense of style is so bad that Brittany’s been trying to give her a makeover since forever, but she’s also got a sharp mind and a way with words. The wit and droll sarcasm she infuses in her articles gets many a chuckle from their readers. She’s _smart_ in the way Brittany will never be. 

One day she would figure out what so many reporters did before her: Brittany doesn’t necessarily work alone because she wants to. 

So Brittany waits out the blank, awkward stare. If past experience is any indication, this is right about the moment Santana will excuse herself and walk over to the coffee machine and have a quiet, intense conversation that’s obviously about her with one of the other reporters. 

“Well then you should have come with me,” she hears after a moment. “Follow me around for a change. Though I will warn you, there will be little to no opportunity for rooftop Parkour acrobatics.” 

Brittany blinks, for a moment unsure if Santana is actually still standing there, looking so nonplussed or if that’s just some sort of overreaching fantasy. 

But no, Santana hasn’t moved. The gobsmacked stare that previously occupied the pretty face has morphed into something else. With relief, Brittany discovers Santana looking sweet and altogether beautiful, with a tilted, scampy smile and a sparkle in her eyes that puts a force of emotion in the pit of Brittany’s stomach. It feels frighteningly familiar and at the same time, not. 

The intensity forces Brittany has to break the gaze just to process it. There’s a loud slurp, and then a sudden yelp, and Brittany glances up to discover that Santana has somehow scalded herself, dripping coffee all over her blazer, as she hisses and hops and does a passable imitation of a chicken. 

That moment, whatever it is, is gone in the face of her stark reminder of Santana’s clumsiness. When the other woman brings her wet fingers to her lips, Brittany can’t help but roll her eyes and take pity on her, plucking a tissue from her Kleenix box and holding it out to her. 

“Thanks,” Santana mumbles, and wipes halfhazardly at her blazer, shifting her weight and frowning at the large coffee stain that now lingers on her lapel. Brittany notices the flipflops that are now on Santana’s feet. They’re blue and pink, and decorated with tiny anchors. 

They look ridiculous. 

“Didn’t I tell you to keep an extra pair of heels in your desk drawer?” 

She receives a dubious frown. “Those were my extra pair of heels.” 

There is no one else on the planet that can be such a perplexing combination of both unassuming sex appeal and complete doltishness. Brittany makes an effort to muffle her own chuckle before she reaches down to pull open her own drawer. She extracts her sensible emergency pair of heels and hands them over. 

“I think we’re the same size,” she guesses, eyeing Santana’s toes. “Don’t break these.” 

Santana’s smile is grateful, but she warns, “I make no promises. Thank you,” she adds, when the shoes are comfortably placed on her feet and the god-awful flip flops are kicked off to the side. “I know it’s silly but heels actually make me feel like a human being.” 

“Join the club,” Brittany says, and then follows up her gift with a Shout! wipe, urging Santana closer. She begins to work on the coffee stain. “Breathe,” she says suddenly, when she realizes that Santana has somehow forgotten to. “Seriously, what on earth did you do before I came along?” 

“I managed,” Santana sputters, blowing errant bangs out of her face and then obediently straightening back into place again when Brittany glares at her for moving. “And besides, I like to think of this friendship as a partnership,” Santana clips kindly, brow arching. 

It’s the first time in these long months that Santana’s ever referred to this… relationship as a friendship, and Brittany finds herself faltering at the word. 

The smile that threatens to slip onto her face is genuine, but habit forces Brittany to tap it down. She keeps her focus on Santana’s blazer, rubbing out the stain. “How?” she asks after a moment. Bright blue eyes glance up with mirth. “Before you came along, I was still writing my ass off and putting The Daily Planet back on the map. And I didn’t have to have half the near death experiences I have now to do it.” She frowns, suddenly contemplating on the unlucky coincidences. She stops rubbing and stares suspiciously. “Maybe you’re a distraction.” 

Santana hums, and murmurs, “Actually I think that’s Superwoman.” 

It’s a comment that seemingly comes out of nowhere. There’s an expression on her face that Brittany can’t quite understand. Brittany is surprised enough to allow Santana to step away from her. It’s not until Brittany remembers herself and glances down to take notice of the very obvious and stylized ‘S’ that’s she’s distractedly doodled on the Post-it that she realizes what Santana meant. 

To be found out so easily is mortifying. “She saved my life,” she snaps hotly, even though she tells herself that she shouldn’t have to justify her absent minded doodles to anyone, least of all Santana Lopez. “At least four times now.” 

“I know, you told me,” Santana responds. “It’s ‘kinda her thing’.” 

“It IS kind of her thing,” she snaps. 

“Pierce! Lopez!” At the brusque bark of an intrusion, Santana jumps yet again sloshing hot liquid all over the place, including onto Brittany’s lap. 

“Shit!” she hisses, launching to her feet, and nearly collides into the other woman. Santana grabs hold of her hip, keeping her from tumbling them both over the next desk as Perry, the long time, long-suffering editor in chief of the Daily Planet, stands on the other side of Brittany’s desk. 

“Are you two working or are you gossiping?” He has dark observant eyes, that rove from Brittany to somewhere between them. Brittany blinks, unsure what he sees, until she takes in a breath and realizes that she and Santana seem to be clutching at each other like cuddling seals. 

She extracts herself immediately, flushing against the attention as she steps back towards her desk. “Can’t we do both?” she asks. 

His eyes narrow. “Get back to work,” he snarls, and then ambles back to his office, like a bear heading for his den. 

In the aftermath of the interruption, Santana is quiet. Brittany finds herself focusing on her tea, still hot and so thoughtfully placed on her desk, right above that infuriating post-it that may as well have little hearts sketched on it. 

“Thanks for the tea,” she says haltingly. 

Santana just smiles, and raises her own coffee cup at her. “Thanks for the shoes,” she responds, and then twists on Brittany’s heels, heading back towards her own desk across the bull pen. 

It’s only then, as Brittany settles into her chair and exhales that she realizes she was holding her own breath. 

\--

Santana is aware of a great many things at any given moment in time. She’s learned to multi-task, because super hearing can be a bitch if you’re not careful. Chloe was the one who eventually figured it out in high school, bringing in a medium of all things, who taught Santana how to close herself off when she needed to. Now more than ever, Santana is grateful to her. 

The farm in Smallville had its share of noise – crickets chirping and the occasional car honk in the distance, but the first few nights in Metropolis after she had arrived had been utter hell. 

Today, she keeps one ear open, so to speak, for the occasional signs of distress, but for the most part, Santana finds herself distracted for an entirely different reason. 

Brittany Pierce will not stop staring at her. She’s trying hard to be subtle about it, but blue eyes are constantly roving in her direction, and the attention is causing Santana to feel flustered and clumsy and everything she normally just PRETENDS to be. 

If she makes just a little effort, she can sniff out Brittany’s exact scent, wafting at her from the desk. So recognizable and unique. 

Santana gives up. She closes her eyes and puts her head in her hands, rubbing against the skin there and letting herself breathe. Physical contact is something Santana usually avoids when she’s the human. She’s forgotten her strength before. There’s this weird shift that happens when Santana wears the glasses where she can almost FORGET that there’s spandex stuffed the bottom of her bag. It means she can make mistakes, and holding Brittany instead of letting them both topple over the desk was one of them. 

She’s held Brittany plenty of times before – as Superwoman. 

Somehow… there is a very, very big difference. Superwoman… she’s hot but in a sense kinda asexual. She’s supposed to be an icon, not a sex symbol, though the folks at Vivid Entertainment and their newest flick ‘Superwoman Does Metropolis’ would see it very differently. 

Santana Lopez, however? Huge Raging Lesbian. 

Brittany has Superwoman on her mind, something that is made very clear by the scribbling on her Post-It. Ignorance and a pair of Chloe-vamped eye glasses can only take Santana so far. 

A secret identity is meant to be a secret identity for a reason. 

Nevermind that exposing herself as Superwoman would probably be a guaranteed way to get into Miss Pierce’s pants. 

God…

“Powers for good,” she reminds herself. “Powers for good. Not sex.”

Her phone rings. Santana’s toes curl in Brittany’s shoes, as her hands lower and she eyes the phone suspiciously. She sneaks a glance towards Brittany, and sure enough, the other woman has her headset on her ear, eyebrow arching in unspoken challenge as she catches her stare and holds it. 

Santana answers the phone. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Brittany asks the moment the receiver hits her ear. 

It’s a trap. It’s happened before. Santana remembers distinctly being asked this question and when she too quickly informed Brittany she had no plans, discovered that she had laid her evening bare to catsit Lord Tubbington III while Brittany went on a date with an odd looking guy named Herman. At the time, the cat was battling some sort of butt-worm condition and required the kind of pill that goes up the ass every two hours. 

The evening ended with Santana stealing Lord Tubbington’s cigars as payment. 

Hey, they were Cuban. 

Even from this distance, Brittany seems to notice her hesitation. “It’s not for catsitting,” she promises. “Though I have another love letter for you from Tubs.”

“Brittany-“

“Look, there’s a charity event for arts in schools that my friend Mercedes is holding tonight and I have to go. You get to be my plus one.” Santana frowns. Brittany smiles at her, blue eyes sparkling even from this distance.

She’s only really known Brittany Pierce a few months, but it’s long enough. “How long ago did your date cancel?” she asks knowingly. 

Brittany deflates. “Fifteen minutes ago,” she admits, and Santana smirks, shaking her head at the simple sadness of it all. “You were the first person I called!” Brittany adds, a lilt in her tone that’s meant to be persuasive. 

Skeptism has become Santana’s bosom companion. “Was I?”

“Yes!" Given the star caliber of the reporter she’s currently eyeing, it’s not surprising that Brittany doesn’t break. “Seriously!” she insists. “Pinkie swear?” Santana laughs despite herself, unexpectedly charmed. “Santana!” Brittany whines, “I need you. Sebastian Smythe will be there.”

Santana’s smile falters. “And all is made clear.” She’s well aware of entitled upper crust rich kid Sebastian Smythe, only son of a Senator, and Brittany’s obsession with getting an interview. She’s also VERY aware of his father's very public stance on Superwoman as a public menace. 

“Santana,” she hears, like a devil perched on her shoulder. Brittany’s voice whispers in her ear and tugs at her soul. “Come on. I thought you said that this friendship was a partnership.”

Santana’s heart stutters… floats… beats once… hard. “Is that what I said?” she asks. 

Across the distance, Brittany’s smile turns bashful, shy even. She bites at her lower lip, her eye lashes flutter, and her unsteady intake of breath is as loud as a trumpet sounding. 

Brittany Pierce is beautiful, her best friend in the world and Santana will never say no to her. 

“Fine.”

Those entrancing eyes sparkle and the laughter that comes out of that mouth is crystal clear! “Yay! Wear a NICE dress, Santana. This is a black tie affair.”

“I’ll find a dress,” she snaps. Her computer pings and suddenly there’s an email from Brittany. 

“Just sent you the details. Thanks Santana. You know what? You’ve totally saved my life. You’re my hero!” 

Brittany hangs up on her, shoots her a grateful smile, and leaves her desk, presumably to get herself ready for this evening event. 

Santana is thunderstruck. It isn’t until later that she understands why. 

Santana Lopez has never been anyone’s hero. 

That mantle has always been reserved for Superwoman. 

She doesn’t know why it makes a difference, but as the words ring in her ears, she realizes that it does. 

It makes a big difference.


	2. All American Girl

The thing is, Santana isn’t the only member of her cobbled together family of ‘Incredibles’ that leads a double life. Her adopted mother, the unassuming Martha Kent, often takes off without warning to Washington DC, because (surprise surprise) the quiet pretty red-headed widow farmer is also a former Senator. There’s a story there, and Santana’s heard it, but it doesn’t explain why Martha is constantly flying around (in a jet, not ‘al fresco’ like Santana does) in her veil of secrecy doing who knows what. Santana has long since discovered that sometimes secrets are kept secrets for a reason. 

Not that she can’t be damn bitter about it. It’s ten tons of ironic that her Grandmother (or the lady she thought was her grandmother) kicked her out onto the streets as a kid not because she was an alien, but because she found out she was gay. 

Maybe that’s why she stayed with Martha Kent, even after Clark dropped her off and she had nothing forcing her to stay in Kansas. Martha didn’t give a crap about her liking girls. She was more worried about making sure Santana learned how to milk a cow without bruising the udders with her awesome Super-strength. 

And maybe that’s why she’s where she is now, settling down lightly on Chloe Sullivan’s particular balcony in the hi-rise condo she now calls home in Chicago, hair wild and tangled from the high winds she wind-surfed to get here. Martha isn’t in town, but Santana has been told more than once that there is no excuse to miss the bi-weekly family dinner. When the farmhouse is empty, Chloe Sullivan’s posh highrise is the mandatory next destination. 

The sliding glass door is unlocked, but that doesn’t mean that Chloe isn’t aware that she’s here the moment she sets foot inside the condo. 

“You’re late!” Chloe Sullivan is dressed casual today. There are no power suits, no imposing heels, but instead just a smile that is surprisingly sweet, a pair of soft sweats, and a t-shirt that’s too large to be hers. Her blonde hair, usually sweeping across her chin in a jagged cut that exudes power, is pulled back in a casual ponytail. She looks homey and comfortable, and not at all surprised at Santana’s cavalier entrance. “For someone with your kind of speed it’s ridiculous that you can’t actually keep an appointment.” 

Santana’s only apology is a bottle of white wine that has been chilled by the earth’s frosty atmosphere. 

“Please. It’s not as if you’ve spent any time dressing up for me. Are those actually sweats?” she snaps at the other woman, who rolls her eyes and huffs in response. “And I can’t stay too late. I have a date tonight.” 

Chloe takes the bottle from her outstretched fingers with an arched, bemused brow. “What, did that fat cat finally make it official?” Santana doesn’t appreciate the skeptical mocking. 

“Actually, it’s a charity gala,” she says, and finds herself biting her lower lip in a moment of hesitation before she takes a nervous breath and carries on. “Chloe,” she calls, and waits until the other woman turns back. “I need to borrow a dress.” 

\--

Mercedes Jones has been most recently hailed as the new up and coming Whitney Houston. She’s known for belting out these insanely complicated songs that would make even Mariah Carey pass out (and came close to it, at the last VH1 Divas concert). When she’s difficult, she’s got an attitude that rivals Aretha Franklin. She lives in Metropolis because she has a rich husband who is based here. But she comes from Brittany’s small town and is one of Brittany’s old Glee Club buddies, and one of the few people in high school who never treated her like she was the Village Idiot. 

They’ve both come a long way from those days of belting out show tunes at McKinley, but sometimes, it honestly doesn’t feel very different at all. Mercedes’ Victorian mansion is a ridiculous sort of paradise in which Brittany Pierce can lounge on a massive foam mattress bed and eat Ruffles Cheddar and Sour Cream chips straight from the bag, chomping loudly and complaining boisterously about the ridiculously huge fly that has somehow managed to get into the bedroom and is now making it it’s personal mission to drive Brittany absolutely bonkers. 

“I swear to God, Mercedes,” she shudders, as the thing buzzes near her face. “This thing is huge! It’s like… a superfly!” 

Mercedes, however, seems less concerned about the mutant fly and more concerned with trying on the outfit her stylist has chosen for her to wear tonight. That and her bed. At least, that’s more or less what Brittany thinks, as all she can actually make out as Mercedes barks from the closet is something about crumbs on her sheets. 

Mercedes has no actual bite when it comes to Brittany, so instead of caring Brittany kicks off her heels and resettles herself. “I have to fill up now,” she mutters matter-of-factly, stuffing another chip into her mouth. “The last time you had one of these things the best thing you served was that thing I thought was chocolate and turned to be goose liver.” Just the memory of the gross, meaty mess spreading over her tongue is enough to make her grimace and put aside the rest of the chips. 

Mercedes pokes her head out to offer her a good Mercedes-patented glare. “You didn’t tell that to Sam, did you?” 

“No, why?” 

“He put himself in charge of the menu this time. I’ll be lucky if the appetizers aren’t corn dogs, pigs in a blanket and Cost Co pizza. With Slurpees to wash them all down.” 

Brittany contemplates the thought. “That sounds really good though. He should have done that.” The fly buzzes again, this time nearly landing on her finger. “Oh my God!” she squeals in disgust, flapping at it with her Ruffles bag. “Mercedes, this thing is gross!” 

“It’s a FLY, Brittany.” 

“It’s MASSIVE,” she retorts, eyes narrowed as she tracks it’s flight across the room. “It’s like the size of a … DUNG beetle.” 

“How the hell do you even know what a dung beetle looks like?” 

That’s actually a very good question. Brittany has no idea. She frowns as she thinks upon the answer. “Oh,” she mutters, and finds herself oddly unsettled as she admits, “Santana told me.” 

“Who the hell is Santana?” 

The fly seems to have found something near Mercedes’ vanity that has it’s attention, and it’s only then that Brittany feels safe enough to reopen her bag of chips. It helps give her a distraction as she explains, “My friend from work I told you about. She lived on a farm growing up. They eat the cow poop.” 

For some reason, this little detail brings Mercedes out of the closet, with enough swagger in her walk to completely take Brittany’s breath away and forget about her chips altogether. “Your friend eats cow poop?” 

“Oh-mi-God it doesn’t matter!” she breathes. “You look amazing!” She does. Mercedes is a vision in her blue gown, the perfect choice that’s cut for her gorgeous curves and generous cleavage. “God, I miss my fake boobs sometimes,” Brittany admits, as she stumbles off the bed to admire her friend’s rack. “You’re so banging!” 

Mercedes is positively adorable when she’s humble. She wipes her hands nervously on her dress and swishes around in front of the mirror. “You think?” 

“Totally!” she gushes, and finds herself smirking as a petty thought comes to her. “Quinn Fabray is going to be so frickin’ jealous.” 

Mercedes’ pretty smile goes immediately south. “Yeah well, ’Gay’ Fabray better keep her hands off my man if she knows what’s good for her.” 

It’s an unfortunate secret nickname they share for the rival debutant, and Brittany does feel sorta bad about it. But really, it’s Quinn’s own fault. The brief history that they share isn’t exactly cheery. Honestly, how was Brittany supposed to know when they hooked up that one time that Quinn was so deep in the closet Narnia was tourist destination? 

“Yeah well, I’m pretty sure she’s gay so…” Journalistic integrity and a fierce sense of morals is what kept Brittany’s mouth shut about it, but she had a hard time understanding the lengths someone will go to in order to preserve a double life. 

Too many lies are involved to make it worth it. How can you trust anyone? Ever? 

“Makes her twice as desperate, if you ask me,” Mercedes grumbles. 

There’s genuine insecurity, hidden in Mercedes’ voice and Brittany gets it. She does. Quinn is gorgeous. She’s like one of those IT glamour girls from the twenties brought to real life, and whether or not she prefers the ladies has nothing to do with her various attempts to snag a catch like Sam Evans, even if he is already married and ‘new money’. 

Still, Sam has proven to be a stand up guy, and seems hopelessly devoted to his R&B wifey. 

“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Brittany promises. “Sam won’t be able to keep his eyes off of you.” 

The way Mercedes softens when she looks at her, the way she squeezes her like she appreciates every single word that comes out of her mouth? That’s why they’re friends. Brittany can’t help but hug back just as tightly. 

“You always know what to say, Britt-y,” Mercedes says, and then reaches for a golden dress with a killer neckline that’s been hanging for Brittany by the bed. “And a deal’s a deal. You sing for me, I get the dress. Now it’s your turn.” 

With an excited squeal, Brittany immediately tugs her shirt over her head, fumbling with her bra clasp. 

“I always forget that you have no concept of modesty,” Mercedes sighs, averting her eyes as the other woman gleefully strips. “Not everyone wants to see your nipples girlie. Oh, and before I forget? I’ve already warned the bartenders. You’re not drinking tonight.“ 

The ban has been put in place at Mercedes sponsored events due to Brittany’s tendency to lose her clothes when she’s inebriated. “Whatever,” Brittany says, and shimmies her skirt down her hips. “Just because you don’t appreciate the view doesn’t mean other people don’t.” 

“I appreciate it just fine in an ‘I hate you – how do you eat chips and maintain a six-pack’ way.” Brittany just winks, and Mercedes rolls her eyes and settles back on the bed. “So what time is Roger getting here?” 

Brittany falters, nearly tripping as she slides her leg into the dress. She hopes that Mercedes does not notice her odd moment of clumsiness. 

“I cancelled,” she says, as carelessly as she can manage, and turns away from Mercedes to tug the strap over her shoulder. “I’m bringing Santana instead. Can you zip me up?” 

But Mercedes is like a dog with a bone, and it’s infuriating to have to stand straight while Mercedes decides that this little change of date is something worth pursuing. “Wait… Santana, Farm-Girl-Who-Eats-Cow-Poop Santana?” 

“She doesn’t eat cow poop,” she mumbles. “And she’s just a friend. I thought it might be nice to bring her.” 

“You never bring ‘just friends’ to my party.” 

Brittany grimaces, because that’s true. She doesn’t. An invite to Mercedes’ charity galas are reserved for the special guests of Brittany’s that she wants to impress (i.e – sleep with). She should have known that changing her mind at the last minute and inviting Santana would invoke this particular line of questioning. 

“Shut up. It’s not like that.” But her cheeks are flaming and her ears are hot because it could be. Honestly, it could. Santana is a dorky, adorable, sexy mess, and Brittany’s considered that enough to understand that she does have a certain attraction, even if the other woman isn’t her normal put together type. 

But she’s also the first real friend that Brittany’s made at work, and because of that, sex will not be a part of their partnership. Too many friendships have been ruined because Brittany can’t keep her sexual curiosity in her pants. “Can’t I just have a friend that I don’t sleep with?” 

“Yes. Me. Everyone else has been banged.” 

“Well maybe I don’t think of her like that,” she mumbles, and God, it sounds lame even to her. She can practically feel Mercedes’ eyes boring into the back of her head. 

“Brittany S. Pierce if you’re suddenly playing shy with me-“ 

“Santana Lopez is my partner from work!” she snaps, and doesn’t understand why she’s snapping at all. “That’s all. Now can we drop it and zip me up?” 

But the outburst seems to be enough. Mercedes quiets down and pushes off the bed, gathering the material at her back and closing the dress around her. 

Brittany whispers a relieved thanks, and then appraises herself in the mirror. The gown is perfect. Of course it would be. Sleek and long, making the most of her curves and athletic body; she looks feminine and strong. With make up and hair? She’ll look stunning. “This is awesome.” When Mercedes doesn’t respond, Brittany turns, only to discover her friend now has an IPAD in her hands. “What are you doing?” 

“Googling Santana Lopez.” Mercedes has this glint in her eye – a dangerous one that she only gets when she thinks she’s got something on Brittany. 

“Mercedes,” she warns. “Stop it! It’s not like that!” 

It’s too late. Mercedes has already scrambled on top of her mattress and is bouncing lightly as she views her results. “Santana Lopez!” she reads out lout with entirely too much gusto. “Graduated from the University of Kansas – columnist in the school paper- “ 

“She’s just a girl from work! She’s not even my type!” 

“Oooh here’s a picture!” Mercedes stops abruptly. “Wow.” 

“Wow what?” Brittany spits, already mid-climb and taking advantage of Mercedes’ sudden immobility to yank the tablet away. There on the screen is a picture of Santana, wearing her now familiar glasses, but dressed in a tailored blue-collared button down with a fitted vested over it. Her hair, which Brittany has only ever seen in a haphazard ponytail or too-tight bun, hangs loose in wavy curls, framing her face perfectly. She’s smiling with brilliant white teeth, leaning back on a desk and looking so casually sexy it’s flabbergasting. “Oh.” 

“This girl isn’t your type?” Mercedes asks skeptically, and takes her tablet back. “Cause that’s a hot cow-poop-eater.” 

“No… I mean…” Brittany finds herself itching to snatch the picture back, because it doesn’t make sense. Santana Lopez, that girl in the picture, looks calm and at ease, with a gorgeous smile and a comfortable grace that she’s never actually seen in person. “That’s… that can’t be Santana. Santana never wears clothes that fit. She’s like… super clumsy and her hair is never that shiny and -” 

“So why’d you cancel on your man-candy?” Mercedes asks, and keeps reading. “Did you know your girl was in Glee Club in high school? It says so here in her school paper bio.” 

Brittany frowns, so overtaken by the gorgeous picture that’s still burned in her brain she can only focus on Mercedes’ first question. “It doesn’t matter. She’s coming because she’s my partner and my friend and you know I want to get close to Sebastian Smythe.” 

Mercedes lowers the tablet and glares suspiciously. “What have I told you about using my parties to get one of your scoops?” 

“If I do it, make sure it’s people you don’t like?” 

Mercedes considers that. “Okay fair enough. I do hate him.” She goes back to her stalking of Santana, and grins. “Did you know she was in Future Farmers of America? She raised cows. I guess that explains eating the poop.”

“She doesn’t eat poop! The dung beetles do!” 

“Well, pop a breathmint when you make out with her, just in case.” 

“Mercedes!” she huffs, suddenly exasperated. “She’s not even my TYPE!” Brittany’s dangerous close to whining, and she has no idea why. “Come on.” 

“Brunette and gorgeous and big boobs isn’t your type?” 

“Augh. Fine,” she mumbles. Mercedes should have been a lawyer. “I do have a type. And maybe Santana is kinda cute, but she’s a friend. And you know I kinda got my eye on someone else.” 

The tablet lowers again. “If we’re going to talk about your creepy fantasy-relationship with Superwoman I’d rather go back to googling the hot reporter.” 

The heat comes back to her cheeks, this time spreading all the way to her ears. “It’s not creepy. She saved my life. Again.” 

“The woman is a stalker, Brittany.” 

“No, she’s not!” Brittany insists. “She’s… really, really hot.” 

“She may have super hearing and super speed but there ain’t no way anyone can just randomly be in the right place and the right time FOUR times. She’s STALKING YOU.” 

Brittany finds herself grinning at the thought. “Well if she is, then she’s free to get up on all this. I’m just saying.” 

“How would that even work?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Doesn’t she have like… laser vision?” Mercedes asks, bored enough with the conversation to go back to her tablet. “What if she got like… too excited? Heat of the moment? She’d chop your head off!” 

“Way to be a romantic, Mercedes,” she growls. 

“This is real life! You gotta think of the dangers!” Mercedes tuts. “You don’t even know who she really is!” 

“Everyone’s allowed to have secrets!” 

Mercedes suddenly grabs hold of her arm. “Holy crap.” 

“Yes, I’ve thought of the X-Ray vision, and it’s not invasive, it’s kinda HOT, okay?” 

“No, forget that!” Mercedes squeals, and shoves the tablet underneath her nose. “Look at this.” 

The picture shown on the screen is so close she can’t quite focus on it, and Brittany can only huff in exasperation and push back to get a good view. 

When she does, she can’t believe what she’s seeing. 

“What the fuck?!” she snaps, because on screen, stolen from a facebook picture is a college-age Santana Lopez with her arms curled around a college-age Quinn Fabray’s waist. They look snuggled and… intimate. 

“Looks like your girl Superwoman isn’t the only one with a few secrets,” Mercedes says, very annoyingly stating the obvious. 

To add insult to injury, that damn fly chooses that exact moment to land on Brittany’s cheek. 

\--

Chloe has a husband; a millionaire stud who has a penchant for arrows and is currently off saving the world. That means that the family dinner that would have involved four or five people is just the two of them, and honestly, Santana likes it that way. With candles lit and the take-out in the trash, there’s nothing to do but settle down on the couch and talk. 

Usually, Santana isn’t good at talking, but Chloe has wormed her way into her very soul, with her smile and her big-sister snark. She’s got this teasing spark in her eye that makes Santana blush, because she knows how she sounds when she talks about Brittany, and she knows Chloe understands what it means. 

“You like this woman,” Chloe says, with a sip of wine and a palm against her slender neck. “You like this woman a lot.” 

Santana buys herself a few seconds by taking a gulp of wine. “There’s a lot of strange,” she admits, “But there’s a lot to like.” 

Chloe catches the secret word. “But?” 

“But she likes Superwoman,” Santana admits. 

Chloe dips her head and smiles demurely. “Well, who wouldn’t?” she answers reasonably. “Superwoman is kinda hot.” 

It’s supposed to be a compliment. Santana understands that. It still irritates the hell out of her. “Fuck Superwoman,” Santana snaps. 

The outburst breaks the calm, sweet haze that’s taken over the evening. Chloe’s smile falters, but to her credit, that’s the only visible sign of her surprise. “Well, that’s new,” she says after a moment, and reaches to set her glass of wine on the coffee table before turning back to the younger woman. “Why don’t we talk about that?” 

Santana doesn’t feel like talking about it. She chooses instead to be sullen, plucking off the eyeglasses that mark her identity as Santana Lopez and twirling them by the stem. 

“Santana… it’s okay to be frustrated.” Santana doesn’t respond. “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t.” 

“But I’m not, though,” she admits. “Right? I’m not human.“ Chloe presses her lips together, but keeps silent, allowing her to keep going. So Santana does. “I’m just this… shell… hiding behind glasses. Tripping and falling and pretending to be this lovable loser, this… cartoon of a person, and for what? Ten seconds where I get to save the girl and fly away.” She laughs bitterly. “God, and you know what’s even worse? That’s who she prefers! THAT! That cardboard cut out of a superhero who barely speaks!” 

“Then maybe she’s not the one for you, Santana.” 

Chloe sounds so reasonable and logical. It’s infuriating. “But she could be, Chloe,” she argues, because she can. Brittany fills her mind… fills every part of her, and Chloe has to understand it. “She could be. You know, she just so…” She let’s go of the glasses, closing her eyes and huffing as they fall into her lap. “She doesn’t think anyone sees how scared she gets, that people are going to see who she really is. She puts on this bitch act because somewhere, someone told her she was dumb, and now, everything she does, everything she says – it’s to prove that she’s not.” 

Chloe reaches into her lap, and grabs hold of the glasses, studying them in the flickering light afforded by the snapping flames of the faux fireplace. 

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Santana manages, lost in her own self-pity, “To stare at someone every day and know there’s nothing you can do to make them really see you.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Chloe mumbles, sounding surprisingly bitter. When Santana looks, she sees Chloe with shining eyes, and a sweet, sad smile. “Honey, density isn’t limited to the human population. Trust me when I say alien superheroes can be just as thick in the head. But,” she continues, before Santana can dwell too much on what exactly that means. “What I do know is that life has this ridiculously silly way of working itself out, if you have a few tricks up your sleeve.” Chloe shrugs, and leans forward to shake Santana’s knee with a familiar sweetness that makes Santana ache, because Chloe KNOWS her. She looks at her and knows exactly who she is. There is no circus act, no busted heels and over exaggerated clumsiness. She knows her in a way that Santana feels that Brittany could, and it’s devastating, to hope with such pathetic yearning. “Santana,” Chloe nudges, stubborn to the end. “What’s the deal? This pining, insecure girl? This isn’t you, okay? I know you. You may be an alien refugee, but that’s never stopped you from snagging some seriously hot human lady tail.” 

Santana grimaces at the reminder of just how intimate her friendship with Chloe is. “Yeah,” she agrees, but quickly raises her hand. “And don’t remind me that you know that. Because I’m still cringing over the hella awkward ‘This is how super-powered aliens can have sex’ chat you gave me back in high school.” 

“Hey! It wasn’t a picnic for me either, believe me.” Chloe snaps, offended of all things. “I had to do a hell of a lot of research into lesbian sex, and the only thing I got out of it is that it’s a very wet process if you’re doing it right. Well,” she continues, “That and long nails are generally considered a no-no.”

Santana tilts her head, suddenly curious. “Really? No experimentation? Not even in college?” 

Chloe’s eyes narrow. “Santana. You’re deflecting.” Santana sighs, her brief amusement fading. It’s irritating that this woman knows her so well. “What’s the problem?” 

Santana stares at the glasses still in Chloe’s hand, feels her toes curl in Brittany’s shoes. “The problem is that ever since I became Superwoman I’ve had to lead this … double life!” she spits, lost in a burst of frustration. 

“You’ve always had secrets.” Chloe is reasonable, so fucking reasonable. 

“Superwoman didn’t exist,” she points out. “Okay? It was just me. I could be… myself. Now that Superwoman’s flying around I’m just… I feel like I have to pretend harder to make sure no one knows, because really? Chloe? A pair of glasses and some badly tailored clothes is the only thing keeping them from finding out that I’m a Superhero. And Brittany… she could see me, you know? She’s smart and the way she LOOKS at me when I’m Superwoman… she could see me. She could see right through me. It scares the hell out of me.” Chloe keeps quiet, absorbing her words. “So… I overcompensate. I trip a little. I… break a heel or two. But lately… it doesn’t feel like… it doesn’t feel like I’m acting. She’s turning me into a dork, and a clumsy dork can’t compete with Superwoman.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Chloe says after a moment, reaching for her wine glass and taking a calculated sip. “You think that someone can finger you as Superwoman. That the clothes and the glasses aren’t enough. So your big solution to that is to be… clumsy.” 

“Okay,” Santana huffs, “When you say it like that it sounds stupid.” 

“That’s because it is,” is the matter-of-fact response. “And darling Santana, you don’t need kabuki when you have these glasses.” 

Santana blinks, suddenly lost. “What do you mean?” 

Chloe smiles mysteriously, and without preamble slips on Santana’s glasses. 

The change is slight… ever so slight… but in a moment Santana finds herself staring at a stranger. It’s flabbergasting, because Chloe is still there, and yet… in her place is a person who is NOT Chloe, could NOT be Chloe. “What the fuck?!” she whispers, and The Person Who Is Not Chloe laughs, before the glasses come off and Chloe is there again. 

“What the hell was that?!” Santana whispers, snatching back her glasses, and staring at them with sudden horror. 

“A little Watchtower Magic,” Chloe says proudly. “I fixed up something similar for Clark when he was playing the double act. It’s nothing harmful,” she assures her. “Just emits a frequency that scrambles the part of the brain that processes recognition. Safely,” she adds, when Santana frowns. “Why do you think I get so pissed when you break your glasses?” she asks suddenly. 

“… so even if someone knew who I really was they wouldn’t make the connection?” The very idea is somehow simultaneously comforting and very, very frightening. 

“Not necessarily,” Chloe says, and reaches for her wine again. “I still know who you are, don’t I? And so does your mother.” Santana stares at those glasses, suddenly strange in Chloe’s hand, despite the fact she’s been wearing them for the better part of a year. “Santana, if they truly KNOW you, then it won’t work. The frequency isn’t that strong.” 

It’s a damn bombshell, and Chloe’s saying it with such casual disregard, as if she hasn’t just turned Santana’s life upside down. “What does that even mean?” she sputters. “And why the hell haven’t you told me this before?!” 

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says, and though she sounds sincere, it’s not nearly sincere enough. “I would have,” she insists. “If I thought for one moment that you were doing live performance art on the side.” 

“You’re such a bitch.” 

“Noted,” Chloe nods, but pushes forward anyway. “And what it means is that you don’t have to be a clumsy clown when you’re Santana Lopez,” Chloe tells her. “Unless that’s exactly who you are.” Carefully she takes Santana’s glasses by the stems, and with the gentle kindness of a dearest friend, she fits them back onto Santana’s face, putting her mask back in place. “Superwoman is hot. But so is Santana Lopez. So give Superwoman a run for her money. It’s time to bring sexy back.” Chloe stands, and holds out her hand, a shit-eating grin on her face. “And I’ve got just the dress to do it.” 

\--

The fun thing about having a rich and famous friend with a competitive streak is that the parties? Are crazy awesome. 

Mercedes knows how to throw a charity shindig, and each and every one is overblown to the point of ridiculousness because she’s always half-afraid that Quinn Fabray is going to have one the next week that’s going to be twice as awesome. 

The result is a fundraiser that becomes an event, and this one, meant to raise awareness and money for the arts in public schools, features among other things, an exotic petting zoo (with a freaking sloth!) and a stage with full band that’s meant to feature the talents of not just Mercedes, but her celebrity friends. There’s a method to the madness – she says showing off is meant to show people what the arts in school can do, but Brittany knows the only reason she’s dressed up like the Ringleader of a Sex Circus is because Mercedes loves to put on a show. 

That and Quinn Fabray probably never thought of it. 

Right now, Brittany knows that the band is playing elevator music, big band swing that’s meant to entertain while waiters in black tie mingle with trays of appetizers, offering a mixture of fancy pigs-in-a-blanket and doctored up teeny tiny tacos and empanadas. 

Brittany feels itchy and finds she doesn’t quite care as much as she should about the treats. 

Instead, she waits in Mercedes’ living room; an improvised backstage area. She eases herself into a split and keeps her eyes on that damn picture of a Santana Lopez she doesn’t know. 

And that’s the problem. Because she does know Santana. Doesn’t she? The Santana who follows her from assignment to assignment, who trips over everything but always has a snappy and cutting comment for any interview who gets a little too uppity, that’s HER Santana. 

Just because she took one good picture and somehow knew Quinn Fabray doesn’t change any of that… 

Their friendship is a partnership and that means they trust each other, and it’s a good thing… right? This picture proves that Santana does have clothes that fit somewhere… there’s hope and that beautiful woman can become even more… beautiful-er. 

That’s a good thing. 

“Will you STOP with that?” Mercedes snaps, snatching the tablet from her hands. 

“Hey!” 

Mercedes keeps it away. “Listen girl, I coulda gotten Christina Aguilera for this, and instead I got you. And let’s be honest, you barely count as a celebrity.” 

“Hey!” 

“Show some grace and appreciation and focus on the damn opening number.” 

“Christina Aguilera hates your guts,” Brittany points out helpfully. “She wouldn’t step foot in here.” 

Her phone buzzes, indicating she has a text. Brittany identifies the sender. 

It’s Santana. For some reason she can’t quite fathom, she finds herself hesitating to respond. 

“What are you doing?” Mercedes asks, clearly as confused as she is by her staring at the phone like an idiot. 

“Santana’s here,” she says dumbly, and it’s exactly the wrong thing to say, because Mercedes has built up her partner like she’s some kind of second coming of Christ. 

“Really?!” she squeals, and scrambles to the curtain that hides them from the band. “Where?!” 

“Mercedes!” she snaps, fingers tapping as she forms her reply. “Would you stop? You’re being really annoying!” 

“HOLY CRAP,” Mercedes yelps. It’s loud enough to get the attention of the entire background group, who stare at BRITTANY like she’s the crazy one. “Brittany, get over here.” 

Curiosity overcomes her temptation to be contrary, and so Brittany goes, pushing at Mercedes just enough to peer into the small opening afforded by the curtain. 

She looks for the glasses, because that’s what she knows, but it’s not what she sees first. 

First there is a red dress. A red dress and cleavage. Lots of cleavage. And long dark hair. Red lipstick. 

And glasses. 

Brittany finds herself suddenly lightheaded. 

“Holy crap,” she breathes. 

As she scrambles to get a better view, she tangles in the drapes and trips, nearly bringing the entire curtain down with her. 

\--

It’s appropriate, Santana supposes, that the charity event that’s run by Brittany’s famous friend is themed to be some kind of vaudeville spectacle. 

She feels like she’s on display. 

It’s been years since Santana’s worn anything nearly as tight as Chloe’s borrowed dress, except for when she’s Superwoman of course, but that never actually counts. She feels like some sort of supervillain vamp, and the thought occurs to her as she accepts a mini bagel pizza and a mini chocolate milkshake served in a shot glass from a passing waiter, that maybe dressing to this level of slutty is a little unpatriotic. 

Particularly since being able to hear the whispered lewd remarks a few of the men are making as she passes by them makes her want to be particularly un-heroic. 

She settles for a scathing glare as her phone buzzes. Santana fumbles a bit, transferring her food to one hand as she glances at the screen. 

_I see you. Be with you soon. Watch the stage until I get there._

It’s a weird text to get, but no weirder than the usual. Still, Brittany has never seen her quite like this, and her reaction… or lack of it… seems… disheartening.

It’s a reminder, and a sorely needed one. No matter what Chloe thinks may happen, for Brittany, tonight is about Sebastian Smythe. 

Santana is only here as a back up date. Her work partner. 

She may not being wearing the Superwoman uniform, but old habits die hard. 

So she does her job, blows out a casual steadying breath and helps Brittany by scanning the room, looking and listening for any sign of the Playboy Bachelor. 

She sees him in a corner, in an expensive Armani tux, holding court over a gaggle of young men, drinking beer from the bottle and wearing a shit-eating grin that portrays him immediately as a self-important hot-air balloon. 

But there’s motion on the stage as the band finishes up to polite clapping. Santana moves with the crowd, edging toward the stage before a familiar scent catches her notice. 

Across the floor, on the arm of a handsome man, but looking straight at her is none other than Quinn Fabray. 

She gets a moment to process that, nothing more, before the room quiets and suddenly darkens. 

One powerful note plays… lingers, and suddenly the curtains part to reveal a spotlight on a blonde in the skimpiest ring leader outfit she’s ever seen. 

“There’s only two types of people in this world.” She swings, seducing the room with a single lyric, before Brittany swivels with a dancer’s ease. “The ones that entertain, and the ones that observe.” Blue eyes lock on her own. 

The shot glass splinters in Santana’s hand.


	3. Circus

_“-I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins- Spotlight on me and I'm ready to break- I'm like a performer, the dance floor is my stage - Better be ready, hope that you feel the same-“_

Fun fact about Santana Lopez: she actually really hates Britney Spears. 

_“All the eyes on me in the center of the ring - Just like a circus-”_

It’s nothing against Britney personally. She knows a lot of people like to rag on Britney for her many (MANY) flaws, but really Santana’s only problem is that there was an incident in college. Chloe wasn’t kidding about the hot human lady tail. Truth of the matter is that Santana found herself accidentally cheating on a one night stand after she failed to realize that the girl thought that their drunken late night bang meant they were exclusive. The girl, a music major with a seriously killer voice, was so upset by Santana’s perceived infidelity that she gathered together the KU girl’s a capella group and serenaded Santana with a fantastically emotional rendition of Womanizer literally everywhere she went. 

_“-When I crack that whip, everybody gonna trip - Just like a circus-”_

Everywhere. Including but not limited to: the library, the newspaper office, a random frat party, the cafeteria, and in one particularly mortifying event - the third stall in the upstairs bathroom in Santana’s dorm while Santana was trying to pee. 

Santana remembers that at the time, Quinn (the girl Santana was purported to have cheated with) thought the entire thing was hilarious, and even went so far to upload it all in an edited compilation on youtube. It got nearly a million views until just two years ago, when Rachel Berry, now a Tony Award nominee but still dramatic as hell, had her lawyer issue a takedown notice, citing defamation of character, even if it was her own damn crazy that was responsible for the mess to begin with. 

_“-Don't stand there watching me, follow me - Show me what you can do-“_

But the damage was done and to this day, even the whisper of a Britney Spears song sends a tick in Santana’s jaw and a crick in her neck. 

The reaction to this number… 

It’s not the same thing. 

In this ballroom, the room has come alive with the music. Speakers thump with heavy bass, sending shockwaves and vibrations through the floor and walls that seem to make it all pulse. The song becomes this living, breathing thing that growls with intent, infecting the crowd with its pure, raw, animal passion.

Cursed with sensitive senses, to put it mildly, Santana feels almost overtaken with the aggressive notes and the visual spectacle before her. 

At its center is Brittany, its own bleeding heart. 

Milkshake drips through Santana’s fingertips. She doesn’t register the chill. Her fingers are curled around shards of glass, and yet Santana does not feel the pain. What consumes her is panic, because she’s startled in a way she hasn’t been startled in years. 

Brittany, larger than life in her over-the-top costume, curls into herself, only to pop out, chest thrusting with the rhythm. Blue eyes close, lost in the count as a perfect body twists back into the strong arms of a male dancer that has sidled up to press in behind her. 

Those eyes snap open. Santana is breathless at the blueness of them, glowing in a way that seems visceral in the spotlight. 

She’s pinned by the stare, and does not move as Brittany, possessed by the music, swivels and pivots in her direction. 

As she comes off the stage and into the crowd, the mass parts for her. Her menagerie of worshipping dancers follow behind her, who appear as entranced as Santana. They crawl on their hands and knees, growl with their teeth, purr against Brittany’s legs, every inch the wild animals they have been made up to be. A woman with whiskers keens under Brittany’s touch, then suddenly hisses as Brittany snaps her ring master whip, keeping the wild woman at bay. 

Brittany looks at no one but her. 

Santana feels her heart beat; it pounds. 

The number ends as quickly as it has begun.

The notes die away, and the entire room is eerily quiet. Brittany waits, chest heaving up and down with her exertion. She’s flanked by her animal dancers, and everyone waits. Her eyes break from Santana’s the second the applause starts. It’s deafening. The crowd breaks their propriety. Santana hears wolf whistles, cheers and shouts. 

They’ve been spellbound, and Brittany’s face lights up with the recognition. She’s transformed, suddenly nothing like the seductress who took control of the room. She’s almost childlike in her happiness. 

Brittany looks at her. Santana finds she is frozen. So consumed with her own desperate need for control; in the face of her own lust, the most she can offer is a tight smile to the performer. 

She regrets it immediately. The shine in Brittany’s eyes dull and that proud, gorgeous smile falters. 

She looks away. 

A passing waiter notices the mess Santana has made. He apologizes like it’s his fault, pressing cocktail napkins into her hands and pushing her lightly away from the puddle. By the time Santana looks back, she discovers Brittany has gone. In her place is their famous host, Mercedes Jones. The R&B songstress looks glamorous and gorgeous, speaking into her bedazzled microphone, welcoming the well-funded attendees. 

“You know, in high school not a lot of people believed in people like me and Brittany,” Mercedes says, growing somber for a moment. “We were different. I thought I was too fat- I know!” she hears, when a blonde man with huge lips boos loudly. “That shit cray!” There’s laughter, and she shrugs over-dramatically. “But thanks to Mr. Schuester and the Glee Club, both Brittany and I found somewhere to belong. We found our voice, and honestly, I know that if I hadn’t had that outlet in high school to express myself, I would have never had the courage to go for my dreams. The arts ARE important, and so we thank you for being here to support such a great cause.” 

Polite applause once again fills the room. Santana inhales and then blanches when she realizes that she’s actually trying to sniff Brittany out… like some sort of bloodhound. 

The sudden insecurity brings with it a nervous tick. Santana adjusts her glasses, shoves them back up her nose, and in the process finds herself the subject of another patron’s attention. 

It’s Quinn, obviously, who stays on her side of the room. The smirk on her face spreads into a smile when Santana catches her staring. 

The years have been good to Quinn. But to see her here, after all this time… 

It’s odd and a little disconcerting. 

Distraction comes in the form of Mercedes Jones, who it appears has finished her introduction and has welcomed on stage what looks to be Big-Lipped Blonde Guy and a group of guys his age that gyrate their hips a little too enthusiastically to the beat of the song. 

They’re singing a version of some generic Boy band song, and judging by the way some of these debutantes react, doing it well? At least she thinks they are. 

Santana isn’t sure if it’s the Gay Gene or the Alien thing that has gifted her with the ability to feel absolutely nothing when Frat Boys pump their hips and make the grown women turn into fangirly idiots, but she’s grateful for it. 

The woman beside her sighs loudly. Santana blinks when she discovers that it’s Mercedes Jones herself, who smiles admiringly at the Blonde Guy and his humping hips. 

“That’s Sam. He’s my husband,” she says, her tone a mixture of affection and exasperation. Mercedes offers Santana a smile that’s wide and sincere. “A self-made boy with a mop of blonde hair and an addiction to chap stick.” 

Santana frowns when she realizes Sam has started removing his bowtie, swinging it above his head like a stripper with a bra. 

“He’s embarrassing, but he’s mine,” Mercedes concludes flatly. 

“Congratulations,” is all Santana can think to say to that. “He has very big lips.” 

“That he does,” Mercedes replies after a moment. 

“Do you call him Trouty Mouth?” she can’t help but ask. 

“… No, but I’m gonna!” Mercedes squeals, and smiles like Santana is brilliant. “Mercedes Jones. I’m a friend of Brittany’s.” 

Santana takes her hand. Mercedes has a strong, firm hold. She’s unafraid and unrepentant and appears to be exactly who she presents herself to be. Santana decides that she likes her. 

“Santana Lopez,” she answers, warmer than she would usually be. “I’m a colleague of Brittany’s. And I’m actually a fan.” 

“Really?” Mercedes’ brow rises. She’s pleased, as anyone with a big ego would be. “Brittany never told me that.” 

It occurs to Santana that she and Brittany haven’t actually talked much about friends. Somehow, the thought saddens her. “Well,” she begins hesitantly as she struggles to keep the warm smile on her face. “I guess Britts and I never really talked about music.” Trouty Mouth sashays on stage, distracting Santana when she realizes he’s lost his shirt. “Did you know that your husband is stripping right now?” 

Mercedes arches a brow and glances back to the stage. “You can take the boy out of the Strip Club but you can’t take the strip club out of the boy,” she sighs matter-of-factly, and then turns back to Santana. “So… you’re Brittany’s date.” 

The title makes Santana flush. It feels like something she hasn’t quite earned. 

“Sort of,” she says. “I’m her colleague and work partner, and she’s here for-“ 

“Sebastian Smythe,” Mercedes sighs, surprising Santana. At her expression, Mercedes sighs knowingly. “She’s kind one-track about some things.” 

“Well, what she does is important.” Santana shrugs. “It’s important to me, too. Sebastian and his family have made their stance on Superwoman and people like her quite clear. It’s time they answer for those views.” 

“Two peas in a pod, huh?” Mercedes appraises her. “At least you seem to have the good sense to keep your ass off of rooftops.” 

“Brittany is braver than me.” 

“I don’t know if ‘brave’ is the right word,” Mercedes growls, shaking her head in wonder. “That girl… She talks but sometimes I don’t know if she’s speaking English or that made up language she invented in grade school.” 

That little morsel of information digs deep into Santana’s brain, and brings with it a sudden memory of Brittany having an entire conversation in some sort of gibberish with another flustered reporter who was trying to scoop her. The frustrated man nearly tried to clobber her in the wake of it. “Is that what that is?” she asks, fighting the laughter that threatens to spill into her voice. 

Mercedes nods. “She does it to piss people off now.” 

It’s really fucking charming, in a bitchy kind of way. “Good to know,” she comments. And the lovestruck stupid, goofy expression must be really obvious, because the way Mercedes looks at her changes. The new softness in her face makes her really nervous. “What?” 

“You like working with her, don’t you?” 

That damn flush will NOT go away. It makes Santana wish she had more covering her face than just her Chloe-tinkered glasses. But it’s kind of refreshing that about THIS at least, she can be honest. “I do. She’s one of a kind.” 

“She likes working with you too, Santana,” Mercedes says, and then grins at her, this big Cheshire Cat grin that only makes Santana nervous. “Brittany killed it tonight, didn’t she?.” 

The remind of Brittany twisting and turning in front of her is enough to leave Santana breathless. “Yes, she did,” as politely and appropriately as she can manage. “I didn’t even know she could sing.” 

“Girl may not have my pipes, but what she lacks in range, she makes up for in moves,” Mercedes agrees. “You were in Glee Club in high school too, weren’t you?” 

That Mercedes knows such a detailed fact about her past throws her mind off of Brittany and back on Mercedes. “How did you know that?” she asks, fiddling with the stem of her glasses as they threaten to slip down her nose. Suddenly insecure, she grabs another shot glass of chocolate milkshake from a passing waiter and prepares to down it. 

“Doesn’t matter, I have a better question to ask you.” Mercedes’ eyes squint as she leans forward in a conspirator’s whisper. “Is it true you eat cow poop?” 

She misses her aim and ends up with chocolate milkshake on her nose. “What?!” she sputters, and wrinkles her nose. The liquid tickles her nostrils, and she has to hold her breath to keep from sneezing and quite possibly blowing Mercedes away like a cannonball. “No?! Who said that?” 

“Oh My God, Santana!” A rich velvety chuckle interrupts any answer Mercedes might have given her. Quinn Fabray carries a cocktail napkin, eyes dancing with amusement. “When did you become a klutz?” 

It’s a blast from the past that Santana isn’t sure she needs right now, but like always, Quinn doesn’t ask Santana what she needs. 

Instead, she steps forward, directly into Santana’s personal space, until there’s only a hairsbreadth between them, and with careful, deliberate movements, she begins to clean off Santana’s face. It’s familiar and intimate, and Santana’s head swims with realization that after all this time, Quinn still uses the same perfume. 

“Quinn Fabray,” she breathes, a smile breaking across her face as the other woman gives her a squeeze of genuine affection.

Quinn pulls back only slightly. Her fingers lock loosely around her waist, keeping her close as she studies her old friend from head to toe. “Santana Lopez,” she returns with a happy laugh. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.” 

It’s been a long time, but the distance has been good for them. After all this time, there’s no bitterness in Quinn’s gaze. 

When the woman beside them coughs suddenly, the moment is broken and she remembers exactly who it is that she is supposed to be conversing with. She flushes, gently pushing Quinn back to an appropriate distance before turning to her new friend, 

“Mercedes,” Quinn says easily. Her posture is perfect. Her smile is easy. Her tone, however, reeks of hostile civility. “Great party.” 

It’s almost comical the way Mercedes plays along, air kissing Quinn’s cheek and offering a razor-toothed grin of her own. “Quinn, I’m so happy you could come.” 

“Oh, you know me. I never miss a party.”

“Yes, I do,” Mercedes twitters, and Quinn’s smile falters at the obvious meaning behind it. 

Santana arches a brow, but Quinn just turns in her direction and hooks her arm through Santana’s elbow. It’s exaggerated and purely for show and Santana has to resist the urge to roll her eyes, because she knows exactly what Quinn is doing. She’s turning into Regina George. “I’m a sucker for a good charity. Especially with one with such... lively entertainment.” 

She means, of course, Mercedes’ husband Trouty Mouth, who finishes his number in his boxers, and nearly trips off the stage thanks to the pants currently around his ankles. 

Mercedes flushes obviously, pink tinting her dark cheeks in a way that clearly isn’t her blush. “Nothing wrong with a man showing off what the Good Lord gave him.” 

“And to the entire room!” Quinn’s eyes widen comically. “Sam’s so generous!” 

Here’s the thing: Santana actually loves a good bitchfest. It was one of the reasons she and Quinn were so close in college – the bitchiness was damned attractive when directed at anyone but her. 

But Santana has discovered more than once since those college years that she is not the same person she was. She’s a damned superhero and has learned that everyone has their own insecurities; their own masks. 

Some of the people Superwoman saved seemed to see the woman as their own personal Catholic Priest and confessed accordingly. Santana knows way more about the sex life of their City Mayor than she would ever care to. 

It involves a dungeon and a Mistress named Denna. 

More selfishly, it probably isn’t a good idea if one is trying to get into Brittany’s Sexy Ring Leader Shorts to piss off her best friend. 

“Mercedes, Quinn and I were in college together.” 

The lone sentence is enough to break the silent staring match between the two aggressive women. Mercedes seems to remember her duties, because she gives Santana a polite grin and says quickly, “Well then I’ll let you two catch up.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Mercedes.” 

Mercedes pauses, turns back and finally, Santana is given a genuine smile. “Ditto.” Once again, her eyes flicker to Quinn at Santana’s side, and her voice gets louder. “I’ll tell Brittany you’re looking for her? I’m sure it would be nice to spend some time with your date.” 

Quinn hums against her, fighting an obvious chuckle. Santana reverts to old habits and pinches her, feeling Quinn stiffen and hiss in reaction. “That would be great, thanks.” 

As they watch Mercedes leave, Santana feels the breath of an old friend and lover against her ear. “So…” Quinn says quietly, “How long have you been dating Brittany S. Pierce?” 

Left alone with a woman with whom she’s intimately familiar, Santana feels oddly annoyed. She pushes Quinn gently away, putting space between them. “I’m not dating Brittany,” she informs her old friend firmly. 

“Oh, but you want to be,” Quinn says, never one for being subtle. “You want all up and down that nosy reporter. Nothing used to turn you on more than a good ole lap dance from a woman in a barely there bra.” 

Santana flushes, and finds she can’t resist throwing her own barb back, “And at last check, it was the same for you. Still bearding, Fabray?” 

The music is loud. No one can hear them. It doesn’t stop Quinn from breaking her composure and glancing around frantically. “Well, we all have our little secrets, don’t we?” Quinn answers carefully. 

It’s a pointed remark. Santana should have seen it coming. 

“God, you never stop being a bitch, do you?” she asks, almost admiringly. 

Quinn lips form into a pleased smile and the hardness leaves her eyes. Santana can almost hear the mask shatter. “There you are.” 

“Hi,” Santana tells her, and Quinn laughs a gorgeous, sincere laugh as she opens her arms once again. This time, Santana falls into the embrace gladly. 

\--

It’s been a long time since Brittany has felt like the insecure girl in high school who cringed anytime anyone looked at her oddly, waiting to be called stupid. 

She’s a reporter now, successful enough to be considered a celebrity by Mercedes’ standards. She’s enough of a show-stopper for Mercedes to trust her to open up her charity gig. 

She’s Brittany S. Pierce and that means she’s fabulous and amazing – she’s got brains and she’s got sex appeal. She knows it. 

So why does she feel so weird? 

Brittany sits in her evening gown, staring at herself in the makeshift vanity. Every swipe of blush is carefully considered. Her false eyelashes have been meticulously glued into place. 

She looks, for the lack of a better word: perfect. Gorgeous. Brittany may not be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she knows how to work with what she’s got, and she knows damn well that what she has is a helluva lot more than most of the female population. 

She should be feeling triumphant. Ready to take on the world. 

Fingers tighten around the edge of the desk and her heart pounds, but it’s not with the usual adrenaline that hits Brittany after one of her impromptu performances. 

It’s a thing of hers, and a main reason why Brittany usually invites a Bang Buddy to one of Mercedes’ events. She always gets horny after she performs. It’s because of the endorphins. The rush of the applause, the way her blood pumps through her veins. It feels like wild horses running in and out of her heart and through her brain. Synapses snap and pop and every single emotion she’s ever felt all at once rushes inside of her and begs for release. 

It’s a high she’s addicted to and it only comes from the success of a great story or one of these rare performances, and that means she wants to savor that feeling, cherish and celebrate it. 

But tonight… 

She kinda feels like shit. 

And all because of Santana. 

Not that she invited Santana to be her Bang Buddy, but at the very least, she wants to impress her. She cares about her, really she does, because Santana could probably be the best friend she ever had, and somehow Brittany is still waiting for that moment when that smart, gorgeous woman will look at her and realize she’s as stupid as everyone says she is. 

That thought terrifies her. 

She doesn’t want Santana to think she’s stupid. She wants Santana to keep looking at her the way she does – like she’s some sort of special, amazing person. A genius. 

Santana’s reaction to her performance was a frozen smile that looked … disappointed of all things. 

“Girl, you got a problem.” 

Brittany’s blue eyes flicker from her own reflection to that of Mercedes coming up behind her. Her friend’s eyes are narrow in concerned focus. She’s not smiling. 

The pit in Brittany’s stomach hardens. 

“Did I suck that bad?” she asks, voice weak with dread. 

Mercedes’ jaw drops for a moment, before she shakes her head immediately. “Are you crazy?” she hisses, hand falling on Brittany’s shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. “You killed it! You had the entire room drooling! Two of the waiters tripped from the puddles on the floor!” 

“That’s sweet,” Brittany says distractedly, and it does make her feel better, because Mercedes isn’t a liar. She never sugar coats the truth, even though sometimes Brittany really wishes she would. 

But if Mercedes is telling the truth and Brittany really did kill it tonight, then what the hell is wrong with Santana? Santana isn’t her Bang Buddy, but she is Brittany’s date, and isn’t it only polite to at least clap when your date performs a hot Circus number that makes the whole room drool and waiters trip? 

“What’s the matter with you?” Mercedes eyes her.

Brittany inhales deeply. She’s Brittany S. Pierce and she’s gorgeous and really, it’s stupid to feel bad. Honestly, it is. She’s so good at her job she’s practically a damned celebrity, and just because a gorgeous dork in glasses didn’t clap or look pleased – 

She lifts the eyeliner to her face, and then the movement falters as she latches onto a desperate thought. Maybe Santana just forgot how to clap. Maybe no one ever taught how to clap. Who knows what they teach a person on a farm? 

It’s not the first time Brittany has had to teach Santana about big city living. 

Maybe this is just another first. 

Santana can apologize to her for not thinking she kills Britney Spears better than Britney herself and then Brittany can ask her how the hell she got a dress that fits and why she looks so gorgeous, and once that’s sorted and Brittany can figure out how go back to being herself and not this insecure idiot that keeps wondering if that red lipstick Santana is wearing tonight is flavored. 

No. She needs to get her head on straight, and then she and her work partner Santana can double team Sebastian Smythe and ask him about the controversial statements he’s made. It’s what she should be focused on anyway. 

She feels emboldened; more like herself. “Nothing,” she decides, and straightens her back, squaring her shoulders as she reapplies her lipstick. It feels like she’s applying war paint. “I’m fine. Did you see Santana?” 

Brittany immediately frowns. She actually meant to ask if Mercedes had seen Sebastian, not Santana. 

“Mmhmm,” Mercedes says, and leans down over her shoulder, staring at her through the mirror. “She likes you, Brittany. I saw her jaw hanging open during your performance. She dropped a shot glass!” 

That doesn’t make sense at all. “Okay,” Brittany whispers. That rock in the pit of her stomach turns a bit, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. “So she liked it?” 

“Of course she liked it,” Mercedes says, eyes rolling. “Her glasses looked like they had steamed over. But you got bigger issues. Guess who’s with her?” 

In the light of this new bit of information, Brittany discovers that she’s optimistic. “Sebastian?” 

Mercedes gives her that look that she gives her when she’s thinks Brittany is messing with her. “No,” she snaps, “Not Sebastian. Forget about Sebastian.” 

Brittany pouts. Mercedes has always been disapproving of her methods of scoring interviews, but she’s never actually forbid it. “But I don’t want to.” 

Palms slam down hard on her vanity, disrupting her makeup and making her nearly stab herself with her lipstick. “Gay Fabray is totally hanging all over your date.” 

Oh. OH.

The image of it takes a moment to set in, but it does, and the result is weird sort of nausea that makes Brittany grimace in a way that she knows is really not attractive. 

But seriously… Gross.

The only thing that keeps her from jumping up immediately and running for the curtain is the knowledge that Mercedes is watching her very carefully. She knows what Mercedes thinks, and Brittany isn’t sure why it’s so damn important that Mercedes does NOT think it. 

It keeps her rational. She exhales slowly, and tries to continue lining her lips as if this isn’t the grossest, most upsetting news ever. “So?” she asks carefully. “You know they know each other. You saw the picture. They’re probably just catching up.” 

“Catching up the same way you and Quinn used to ‘catch up’?” 

Augh. “That only happened one time!” she snaps, because Mercedes will never, ever let her forget it, and to even think about Santana and Quinn together in that way is just… 

“Well, judging by how Quinn’s all over your date, it’s gonna happen again.” 

Once again, she has to swallow down her own bile. “So?” she says stubbornly, “Santana’s a big girl. She’s just a friend.” But she pictures Santana, the way she saw her just ten minutes ago, in that curvy red dress and with her long brunette hair-

Fuck. NO. 

This isn’t the real Santana. The real Santana has no hand-eye coordination and constantly breaks her heels. 

And truthfully, Quinn isn’t a fan of klutzes. Brittany has a particularly vivid memory of getting elbowed in the gut during a particularly enthusiastic round of sex to prove it. 

“And besides,” she finds herself saying, after she relines the upper lip she’s already determined is perfect two minutes ago, “In a minute, she’ll probably spill a drink all over herself and Quinn will get disgusted and leave her alone.” 

The thought is surprisingly cheery. 

“She already did that. Quinn thought it was charming, and practically licked it off of her.” 

Her lipstick suddenly swerves against her face. “Crap!” Brittany exhales, when she realizes she’s accidentally turned herself into a clown. 

Mercedes just hands her a tissue. Brittany accepts it gratefully, wiping away the excess make up that’s been smeared on her cheek. “Look, Santana may be a dork, but she’s not stupid, okay? She’s not going to fall for someone as plastic as Quinn Fabray-“ 

“You did-“ 

“I’m stupid!” 

“No you’re not!” Mercedes angrily retorts. 

No. She’s not. 

Brittany puts the lipstick down. “Look, Mercedes, I don’t know where this is coming from, but I already told you, I don’t see Santana like that.” 

“Then you are stupid,” Mercedes says flatly. 

The comment feels like a punch in the gut. “Mercedes,” she breathes, wounded. 

But Mercedes is unrepentant. “Brittany, I don’t judge you,” she begins, which Brittany thinks may be a sure sign that she’s about to get judged big-time. “If anything I live vicariously through you, because you are a serious Sex Shark. But I also know you. I know what you want and what you’re looking for, and I’ve never seen you LOOK like you do when you talk about this woman.” Brittany swallows hard. She can’t look at Mercedes. She won’t even look in the mirror. She’s too afraid of what she’ll see. “If you’re seriously passing up the opportunity to romance a girl who I know you care about, and who truly LIKES you, and is smart and beautiful and thinks you are too, just because she doesn’t wear a cape?” 

Mercedes trails off, and suddenly Brittany can’t stand the silence. She looks up – meets Mercedes’ disappointed gaze in the mirror. 

Mercedes shrugs, sighing in resignation. “Then you’re an idiot,” she finishes. With a tilted, pointed look, she walks away from her, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “Hurry up. Your date’s waiting for you.” 

\--

She’s been waiting for Brittany for more than ten minutes. In that time she discovers she’s missed a call from Chloe.

Santana considers returning it, but she finds it easy to reason that if it was truly important, Chloe would text or call back. 

More than likely, it’s Chloe being nosy, because Chloe is a former reporter and it’s in her blood. Santana has nothing at all to report, other than a return to her clumsy form and Brittany causing massive flood in her lady pants with a sexual performance. Both points are embarrassing. 

So she doesn’t call back and instead she and Quinn graduate from milkshakes to malt shakes spiked with Bailey’s. As they catch up, it’s apparent that even after several years, even after Superwoman, some things do not change. 

In a way, it’s comforting. Quinn Fabray is still in her element as a bitchy, conflicted, closeted debutante. It’s nice; a reassurance that Santana hasn’t imagined the part of her life where Quinn was in it. It hasn’t faded away just because Santana has been chosen to becoming something new – a mild-mannered reporter and a Superhero. 

But there’s also the fact that in her red dress facing Quinn Fabray, who sports immaculate make up and a shorter haircut than she remembers, Santana feels almost like her old self.

That’s dangerous. 

Santana’s old self is not a person who can be a hero. She’s not a person who should be a hero. 

It’s even odder that Santana realizes that the College! Santana who partied with Quinn because she was desperate to feel human isn’t who she wants to be anymore. 

Fucking ironic that she’s never felt more human than when she’s trailing after Brittany Pierce and catching her when she flingers herself off of rooftops. 

“I may have read an article or two,” Quinn admits, hiding a smile behind her palm as she cross her legs, lounging on the stool next to the bar. “In teeny tiny block letters right underneath the big bold ones of Brittany S. Pierce.” 

“So you knew I was in town,” Santana confirms, and Quinn again issues one of her trademark smiles, that spoke of depths behind the mask of the perfect debutant. 

“I had an inkling even before I saw the byline,” she says. “But I knew I’d run into you eventually.” There’s something more that Quinn isn’t saying. Santana knows better than to press her. 

The crowd is starting to mingle, getting a little drunker on the spiked malts and fruity drinks. It’s getting rowdier and Santana can’t help but search each face, looking for the one she misses. 

“Seriously, Santana,” Quinn sighs after a moment, eyeing her old friend through narrowed lids. “What are you doing?” Santana blinks, unsure of what she means before Quinn elaborates. “Brittany Pierce?” she says. “Really?” 

She flushes. “Quinn-“

“She’s here for a story, isn’t she? She didn’t just invite you because she wanted you here. You’re helping her get a scoop, aren’t you?”

Santana is uncomfortable. She’s fidgety. She’s everything Santana Lopez has become – klutzy and unsure, and Quinn registers it all with a frown. 

“But for you, it isn’t just about Brittany’s story. This is the night that you’re hoping things cross that line, isn’t it?” 

Quinn speaks with that knowing, flat tone. There’s no room for argument, and Santana wants to argue, because she suddenly feels really, really stupid. “Quinn, shut-“ 

“Don’t try to deny it,” Quinn says flatly. “It’s been a few years, but you haven’t changed THAT much. I can still read you like a book.” 

It’s eerie how true that is. Quinn has always understood expectation. She understands the need to keep a secret. It’s harder to wear the mask around Quinn. 

And God, sometimes Santana really hates the fucking mask. 

She breaks. 

“So I like her,” she admits, and decides to be unrepentant. “I like her a lot. So?” 

Quinn considers that, finger twirling the edge of her glass. “Santana,” she begins, and Santana knows it’s not the start of anything good. “I know it’s been a few years, and I know you and I have… a past.” 

It’s generous, considering the kind of past it is. “There’s a ‘but’ coming,” Santana breathes, and Quinn smiles a quick, phantom grin that disappears just as quickly. 

“But I love you,” she says, firm and to the point. Santana blinks, shifts uncomfortably, until Quinn grabs hold of her forearm, holding her still. “And not in that I-want-to-bang-you kinda way, you conceited bitch, though that was fun,” she adds, and Santana finds herself laughing. Quinn waggles her eyebrows, but her smile remains quietly sincere. “But in the I-genuinely-care-about-you-and-it’s-damn-good-to-see-a-friend kind of way.” 

It’s grown up and mature and completely not the Quinn she remembers. “Quinn, just spit it out,” she sighs. “You’re freaking me out.” 

Quinn’s throat bobs. She hesitates only a moment before she sighs and says, “Brittany has a reputation. She gets around.” 

She’s stunned speechless. The words repeat in her mind, and with them comes a sudden rush of anger, because really, What the Fuck? 

“You’re seriously calling her a slut?” she snaps. 

“No,” Quinn says, firm and even-tempered, and honestly, that just makes it worse. “No, I’m saying she gets around. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. God knows you and I did our share in college but-“ 

“But what, Quinn?” she asks, feeling suddenly too hot, and too uncomfortable. 

“But I saw how you were looking at her,” she finishes. Santana blinks, shifts and swallows. “Look,” Quinn says after an uncomfortable beat. “I’m just saying be careful, okay? If what you want is a quick fuck, then go for it, but if you’re thinking that whatever is going on between you could be more than that-“ 

“Quinn,” she whispers in hurt exasperation, “Just-“

“Be careful.” Quinn finishes. She stares at Santana, and it feels almost like QUINN is the one with the laser vision and not her. 

It’s infuriating.

“You don’t know her like I do,” Santana finds herself saying, and it comes off as cliché and desperate, but it’s also true. Quinn’s jaw hardens, but she says nothing. “Seriously, Quinn. She’s not just a… crush,” she whispers, and flushes as she does so. “She’s also a friend, and my partner.” 

Quinn observes her, tests the sincerity of her words with silence. She sighs. “Well just be careful,” she continues, voice immediately lighter. “Her friend Mercedes is a bitch.” 

The flippant and annoyed statement is almost comical in the wake of the rest of it. Santana finds herself grateful for the reprieve. “What was that, anyway?” 

Quinn shrugs. “Mercedes has an attitude and I don’t like it. Ever since … she found out about me she likes to think she has this stupid thing over me-“ 

“The gay thing,” Santana confirms. Quinn’s eyes flicker to hers, then away. 

“You know why I can’t come out,” she mumbles, and it’s as tragic now as it was in college. 

Santana sees it… the way Quinn is just so sad, haunted with the weight of her closet. 

The anger dissipates in favor of genuine sympathy. Santana reaches for her spiked malt, and raises it in Quinn’s direction. “Like you said, Quinn, everyone has their secrets.” 

Quinn’s head lifts. She’s grateful. 

Their glasses clink in genuine commiseration. 

“So I get pissed off and flirt with her Chippendales husband, and it pisses her off more.” Quinn shrugs. “It’s a vicious cycle and I kinda like it that way.” 

It’s typical Quinn Fabray, but before Santana can offer any wisdom, a fragment of a sentence from another conversation floats in her ear from across the room. 

“-honest here, it’s the fact that she’s got big tits and a skirt. Superwoman is a fucking mutant, a mutant vigilante and no one wants to call her on it because they all want to bang her.” 

Santana sucks in her breath. Her head whirls, and she locks onto the speaker. 

Sebastian Smythe. She should have known. 

“Would you excuse me for a second?” she asks Quinn. Quinn frowns, but nods. 

Santana offers the other woman an affection squeeze, and heads purposefully in his direction. 

“Sebastian Smythe?” she asks when she has his attention. She holds out her hand politely. “My name is Santana Lopez. I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

\--


	4. Kryptonite

There are two things that immediately pop into Santana’s head when she finally meets the infamous Sebastian Smythe face-to-face.

 One:  For a person with a highly attuned sense of smell, the amount of cologne that he’s currently drenched himself in is enough to make that person choke.

 Two: If a cartoon version of Sebastian was ever drawn, it would resemble a weasel.

A third observation comes immediately afterwards, when Sebastian rakes his eyes up and down her body in an actual leer that’s highly inappropriate and more than a little disturbing considering who it’s coming from:

For a gay playboy, he’s awfully interested in her breasts.

Maybe he’s just jealous.

With a firm and confident handshake, he lets the touch linger as he finally focuses on her face.  “You’re right, Ms. Lopez,” he answers easily.  “I don’t believe we _have_ met.” The smile on his face reveals teeth that are almost blindingly white.  “Care to tell me why we’re meeting now, Four Eyes?”

Oh, he’s bitchy.  

Santana has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Bitchy she can do.   Bitchy comes way too easily, especially when she’s not dressed in spandex.

“Oh, I couldn’t help myself,” she drawls, drawing her hand back and squaring her shoulders.  “Considering that absolutely fabulous wisdom you were spewing just now.  I’m surprised Gloria Steinem hasn’t personally reached out to you and offered you a place in her Think Tank.”

The dapper men around him all murmur, caught between little scoffs and laughter.  It’s a direct challenge, and she can tell that Sebastian Smythe doesn’t know whether to lower himself to engage himself or squash her like the girl bug that she is. 

In the end, his pride wins out.  The grin on his face widens to Cheshire Cat proportion.  He actually lifts his hands and smoothes it against his shellacked hair like he’s some 90’s sitcom villain.

“Well I’m honored, Ms. Lopez, that you were eavesdropping in a conversation and felt compelled to interrupt it just to tell me that.”

He’s trying to paint her as pathetic.  His friends hoot, smirking at her and snapping their jaws like a pack of over-dressed hyenas.  Santana only just resist rolling her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry? Was this a conversation?” she asks, pretending to look horrifyingly apologetic.  “I could have sworn I saw a soap box.”

The confident smile stalls, but to his credit, just barely.  “Everyone is allowed to have opinions, Ms. Lopez.  For example,” he continues in a conversational tone, waving his hand toward her dress.  “I’m allowed to think that that dress makes you look like an over-the-hill, sausage tucked Demi Lovato.”  His eyes sparkle.  “With inflated boobs.”

It’s a cheap and easy insult.  Santana isn’t impressed.  “And I’m allowed to think that your obsession with my tits is some inverted form of Penis Envy,” she tosses back just as sweetly.

There’s a very audible guffaw, and though Sebastian’s confident smile does not waver, he does seem to miss the humor of it.  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Santana Lopez,” she repeats, and decides to take the mask off, at least metaphorically.  From her cleavage, she pulls a business card.  It’s creepy that he follows the movement with as much interest as he does.  “Reporter for the Daily Planet.”

He takes the card, studies it.  “Ah,” he exclaims, clicking the white card against his teeth.  “Now I know why the name is familiar.  Wasn’t your last piece about a cat show?” He arches a disdainful brow.  “Riveting work.”

“I can imagine why you’d think so,” she replies just as easily. 

“And what on earth do you think I have in common with a bunch of whiny, bratty feline bitches, Ms. Lopez?” he says, before he immediately blanches at the easy joke he’s set up for himself and lifts up his arm, waving off his friends.  “Wait, stop.  I take that one back…” It doesn’t seem to come and he panics. “Something about your boobs!”

Santana shakes her head, an unwilling smirk floating onto her lips.  “Really?”

“I’ve had more than a drink or two,” he admits, flushing.  “Just give me a minute, and I can get my mojo back.”

“How about I buy you a drink and we continue this in private without your boytoy audience?” she asks instead, arching a brow to his band of minions who are watching this conversation like they’re at the US Open. 

“Don’t swing that way,” he answers, with enough bitchy confidence to make any gay boy proud.  “But flattered.”

“Not into dick,” she snaps.  “But no problem.”

It takes a moment for that to settle in, but when it does, she’s rewarded with a smile that seems just a little softer than the others she’s received. “Well in this group, you’d be the only one,” he answers and suddenly glances at the stage.  “It appears I’m being summoned.  It was a pleasure, Ms. Lopez.”

Santana hates that it kinda was.  

She lets him go, eyes following him as he heads with his entourage through the ballroom and toward the stage, just as Mercedes introduces him as ‘Sebastian Smythe and the Warblers’.

At least he kept her card.

She’s tapped on the shoulder. 

Santana inhales, and knows immediately from the familiar scent who it is who has somehow managed to sneak up behind her. 

“Hi.”

Santana’s chest goes tight as she turns to discover her work colleague in the slinkiest, sexiest ball gown Santana has ever seen. Brittany’s dress frames her curvy body in such a way it leaves nearly nothing to the imagination and yet somehow accentuates her beauty like a bold ribbon on a present.

A present that Santana would very much like to unwrap.

Santana has never had much patience for Christmas wrapping. 

Brittany, who has been standing in front of her gaping stupid ass this entire time, seems to think it’s hilarious. “Who are you and what have you done with my date?” she jokes with a twinkle in her eye and a smile playing at her lips.

 _God Damn._ Santana tries to respond.  Really, she does.

She goes stupid instead. 

The thing is, Santana is gay.  She’s as gay as a gay female alien can be, and she’s also a little bit in love with this human woman, who has that hour glass figure that Santana never will and finds so very attractive, along with crystal blue eyes that without any ounce of effort, seem to shine brighter than any diamonds. 

Santana has had encounters with kryptonite before.  Chloe, the crazy freak that she is, insisted on it.  Over and over again she’s said that Santana’s only weakness needs to be controlled.  She's also developed this insane theory that repeated exposure will lessen the effects, like some sort of flu shot. 

Eventually, Chloe hopes it will make Santana immune. 

Santana gets it, she does.  Chloe only has her best interests at heart.  But Santana fucking HATES those sessions. She can’t stand how a little rock can suck the strength right out of her.  It brings her to her knees, paralyzes her, and the pain... fuck she's being poisoned from the inside out.  Never has Santana been so frightened as when that familiar feeling takes her over and leaves her completely at the mercy of whatever person is holding the meteorite. 

Santana is Superwoman.  Superwoman is supposed to be a bad ass.  She should be at no one's mercy.  

But right now Brittany may as well be holding that stupid green rock. 

Brittany's a human and she’s flawed.  She lives in a different world than the rest of the Metropolis, maybe than the rest of the world.  She’s flirtatious and oblivious and brave and a little bit selfish. 

She's manipulative, but she isn't malicious about it.  

With just a smile, she can strike Santana breathless and bring her to her very knees. 

And God-damn it, she does. 

 “Woah!”  Brittany yelps when Santana loses her strength.  She's caught hold of her, a picture of concern.  “Santana!” 

Brittany’s strong.  It’s silly that that’s the first thing that comes to mind when the other woman keeps her against her, arms locked around her waist, making sure she’s stable, but it is. 

For a human woman, Brittany’s pretty damn strong. 

It’s fucking sexy. 

“Sorry,” Santana says, and it’s nearly all she can manage. “I tripped.” 

Because that’s what Santana does when she’s around Brittany Pierce.  It doesn’t matter if she’s in a red dress meant to kill, or wearing a perfectly made up face.  When she’s around Brittany… she’s this… idiot. 

It’s ridiculous. 

When she finally gets the nerve to look up, Brittany's expression is a mixture of disbelief and actual amusement.  “Did you just trip on your own feet?” There’s laughter at the back of her throat. 

It’s mortifying, but it’s better than Santana trying to explain that Brittany and all her sexiness made her alien ass literally swoon.  “It happens." 

Brittany’s brow goes up, nearly disappearing into her perfectly coifed hair until she lets out a happy giggle that feels like a relief.   

The music blares up in a crescendo, and Santana uses it to regain her sanity.  With a smile, she pushes herself up and out of Brittany’s distracting embrace.  “Thanks for catching me.” 

That gorgeous smile widens.  “It’s kind of my thing,” she quips, and fuck, it makes Santana’s heart ache. 

It’s not.  It’s actually Superwoman’s thing, and it’s also a very telling reminder that that’s not who Santana is to this woman.  “Guess it is,” she mumbles.  

Maybe Brittany senses her sadness.  Her smile fades, and she blinks, as if unsure what caused the shift. 

Desperate for some kind of relief from her own weakness and emotion, Santana looks toward the stage to Sebastian Smythe: Bigot Playboy, and his dancing Warblers.  

It’s disappointing that they’re actually talented.  Their harmonies are right on, and there is something to be said for those matching ties and thrusting hips.  Their version of ‘Hollywood’ by Michael Buble has been given an arrangement that actually improves it.  

“Is that Sebastian Smythe?” Brittany asks, suddenly much closer than she was a moment ago.  The words push breath directly in her ear, tickling already sensitive skin and sending a shudder through Santana’s body.  Santana’s eyes flutter closed at the contact, but she takes in a breath that she honestly shouldn’t need, and nods carefully.  

“The Asshole himself.” 

Brittany shifts, seems to actually move even closer, and watches the performance. “He’s good,” she says after a moment, with an insecurity that Santana isn’t used to hearing from the cocky reporter.  

It’s only then that she remembers her extremely idiotic behavior when it came to Brittany’s own stellar performance. 

“He doesn’t hold a candle to you,” she says honestly, and forces a happy, admiring grin on her face as she turns back to her friend.  “Seriously, you were amazing.” 

Brittany flushes, and it’s adorable.  “You’re just saying that.” 

“Have you ever known me to _just_ say anything?” 

“Good point,” Brittany admits, and flashes a pretty smile that is much more reminiscent of _her_ Brittany. And that’s good.  Santana needs that.  She needs to remember exactly who they are, instead of who she wants them to be. 

“I had no idea you could do more in heels than pitch yourself off of rooftops,” she finds herself teasing. 

It’s a good move.  Brittany’s smile widens.  “Well then we’re even,” she answers softly.  “Because I had no idea you could find a dress that fits.” There’s no mistaking her appreciation.  Brittany has never been anything less of an open book, but the way her eyes seem to drag along Santana’s figure, from the four inch heels to the bold red dress with the slit on the side… 

It’s not helping with Santana’s weak knees or her painfully ignored libido.  

Santana knows she looks good.  She’s gorgeous. Superwoman is fucking hot and so is Santana Lopez, at least when she’s not playing at being a mild-mannered reporter with cunning wit.  And even then, she’s gotten her fair share of attention because this mild-manner reporter still has a killer rack. 

But the way Brittany is looking at her… 

It feels like the beginning of something, and that’s dangerous. 

It makes Santana want to bargain with herself.   Just like she plays a part at Superwoman, what’s wrong with putting on another mask?  What’s wrong with pretending, just for tonight, that Brittany’s just any other girl?  If she can pretend, then she can forget, and if she can forget… then Santana can turn on some of that college player charm and seduce that dress off that woman. 

That’s the whole point of tonight, isn’t it?  It’s the point of the dress and the cleavage and the slit in the dress that shows the sliver of toned, tan thigh. 

She wants to seduce Brittany, to force her to take her stupid metaphorical glasses off and SEE Santana for the bombshell she could be. 

That’s the damn point. 

Santana is a professional pretender.  She fights against her true self all the time. 

But maybe that’s the problem. 

Maybe she’s just tired of fighting. 

Maybe she doesn’t want to pretend with Brittany. 

Maybe she just doesn’t want to wear another mask. 

Santana swallows away the cheap, empty feeling.  “I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other, Britt.” 

Blue eyes stare at her. 

Someone jostles her, bumping up against her shoulder and nearly upsetting Brittany’s drink.  The angry retort that’s already on her lips is swallowed when she realizes that the intruder is none other than Quinn Fabray.  She doesn’t stop, but she does linger.  She catches Santana’s eyes meaningfully and squeezes hard against her elbow as she apologizes prettily before moving further into the crowd currently appreciating the Warblers’ performance. 

It’s impossible not to understand what has just happened. 

It’s Quinn, in her own way, knocking some sense into her… literally. 

_Be careful,_ Santana remembers, as she turns her head and watches her friend disappear.  

“I’m beginning to realize that.”  Brittany says.  Santana sucks in a haggard breath, turns back.  The smile on the other woman’s face has faded; the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed. “You look…” Brittany sighs as she seems to take her in, oddly losing strength in her words. “…really amazing, Santana.  I almost didn’t recognize you.” 

The words rush out of Brittany’s lips in a harried breath, like she can’t quite believe it, and maybe she can’t.  Brittany is used to seeing Santana a certain way – sexless, loyal… a friend and a partner. 

One night in a beautiful dress shouldn’t change that, no matter what Chloe thinks. No matter what Santana wants. 

Brittany’s looking at her now like she doesn’t know her, and she doesn’t look pleased about it. 

Her heart feels heavy, but Santana makes certain that her smile doesn’t show it.  “Thanks,” she answers carefully, and then nods back toward the stage.  “So I already introduced myself to Sebastian Smythe.” 

Brittany’s shocked.  “Wait, Really?” 

It should be insulting that Brittany’s so surprised.  “Yeah. I had some time to kill while I was waiting for you and… well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” 

She’s here as her colleague.  Her work partner.  She’s here because Brittany’s date cancelled.  

That’s all. 

Brittany’s kind though.  She could tease, offer a ‘Damn Straight’ or ‘Duh’ – a typical Reporter Brittany response.  Instead, her friend’s bright smile fades once again, and she offers instead a nervous frown that wouldn’t be adorable if it weren’t for the way she’s chewing on her lower lip and says something that absolutely floors her.  “You know that’s not the only reason, right?” 

Santana doesn’t really know what she can say to that. 

\--

Mercedes’ words continue to ring in her head, and Brittany kind of hates her for it.  Had Mercedes not been so _blunt_ , Brittany could have handled this.  She could have approached Santana and ignored the figure-hugging dress, the red kissable lips, the long lashes that shine behind those glasses and it would just be Santana: beautiful, clumsy Santana that she knows so very well, loyal and a little cowardly but also so very brave and a little mean in her own special way. 

Backstage Brittany had a sense of perspective.  Out here? Out here it’s confusing.  Santana smells so good right now, and she’s making Brittany breathless just by standing there.  The things Santana normally does that just make Brittany smile at how adorable she is now make her kind of want to swoon and it’s not FAIR. 

Brittany doesn’t need this right now.  

Santana is the person who Brittany thinks may be destined to be her best friend.  She’s the one who sticks pills in Lord Tubbington’s ass and calls Brittany a partner. She makes Brittany feel like a genius. 

She doesn’t want to look at Santana and actually ACHE at her beauty. She doesn’t want to feel so stupid that she somehow didn’t see it before.  She doesn’t want to look at someone like Quinn Fabray and feel jealous and insecure because of how Santana’s looking back at Quinn. 

That’s not how they work.  That’s not how THIS works. 

Even Santana seems to see it, because she’s trying to talk to Brittany about work and instead all Brittany can think of is that Santana thinks Brittany only brought her here as a last resort and she’s only here to work and it’s… 

_Stupid._

Quinn Fabray is right there, giving Santana these big doe eyes that may as well say ‘Fuck Me In the Coat Closet’ – 

And now she really wants to fuck Santana in a coat closet. 

And Brittany’s really, really wet over it.  She’s getting even wetter because Santana’s dress shows a lot of cleavage and there are perfect boobs that need to be worshiped and – 

God, Mercedes _ruined EVERYTHING._

“Who are you right now?” she blurts to herself, and it’s completely the wrong thing to say.  Santana stares at her like she’s gone and grown a second head, and then she looks like Brittany’s made her feel like shit, and so Brittany feels like shit and it just sucks. “Sorry,” she breathes as quick as she can, lunging forward so she can grab hold of Santana before she can flee.  “I’m not used to…” she doesn’t know how to even begin to explain it.  This feels like when she’s writing a story, but she can’t find the words.  Her tongue feels thick and her fingers ache for her Silly Putty.  “You know you’re different… right?” 

Santana’s dark brown eyes take her in, absorbing that statement.   She finally smiles, but it looks almost bittersweet.  Her fingers squeeze carefully back.  “I’m exactly the same person that I’ve always been, Britt-Britt.” 

And she is.  She totally is.  Santana is still the same kind, acid-tongued reporter she knows.  She sees it in her eyes.  

Yes it’s Santana.  

But the way she’s making her feel… 

Santana’s thumb strokes against her wrist, soft and reassuring.  

A jolt springs that makes Brittany’s breath catch and her toes tingle.  Her heart pounds.  It feels so achingly familiar. It’s almost like- 

She stops herself, dizzy with her thoughts.  _Stupid,_ she reminds herself.  _That’s stupid._   “I’m glad,” she answers, stronger and jollier in her tone.    

“ _So don't go higher for desire_ ,” Sebastian voice floats above the room, filling it with his catchy tune. “ _Put it in your head, baby, Hollywood is dead, you can find it in yourself_.” 

Santana is distracted again, glancing back toward the Bigoted Weiner and his Gay Chorus.   Brittany’s a little unsettled to notice that he actually looks back, catching Santana’s eye with a grin and a wink. 

And God, really? It’s bad enough that she has to worry about closeted debutante lesbians, but now Santana’s got out gay playboys flirting with her too?  

“I think Sebastian likes you,” she muses, and finds herself less than pleased with the thought. 

“Sebastian is gay,” Santana tells her, which is common knowledge so… duh.  Brittany resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Not everything is about sex,” she says, even though she’s totally thinking about sex right now. 

Her cheeks burn, but she forces her gaze to stay on Sebastian as Santana suddenly looks at her, studying her closely. 

“I guess,” she hears after a moment.  Brittany’s jaw ticks, uneasy until she feels Santana turn back toward the stage.  The song finishes; the crowd erupts in applause.  “Anyway, I think we have a chance of scoring an interview if I keep working him.” 

She can feel Santana drifting, ready to follow Sebastian as he heads off the stage. 

It’s the smart thing to do.  They’re here for work.  

Around her, gorgeous people are dancing.  Mercedes is cuddling with Sam near the stage, ready to go on and introduce the next act, ever the dutiful hostess.  At any other one of these parties, Brittany would be ready to leave by now with a date that is salivating over her.  She’d get a night of sex, and the next morning she’d have a clear head, mind back on work.  

She’d head to the office and the first person she’d look for, the first person she’d want to see, the first person to even pop into her head would be Santana Lopez. 

But she doesn’t have to go anywhere tonight.  Santana is here with her, and somehow that’s just the most amazing thing in the world. 

And that’s including that one time she found out that you could buy all marshmallow boxes of Lucky Charms on the internet instead of having to go through the trouble to manipulate horny Irish boys to make one for her. 

Brittany has always been impulsive, but she stuns even herself when she says, “You know what? I don’t want to talk to him tonight.” 

Santana’s confusion is evident.  “Brittany, he took my card, but tonight may be the only night we get to-“ It’s really, really sexy how concerned she is about Brittany’s story. 

Like, super charming. 

“It’s just a story, Santana.” She shrugs, smiling.  It’s just a story and this could be the rest of her life.  It doesn’t even compare.  It’s so obvious it may as well be written in black and white and printed in a newspaper. If Brittany wrote this like a story, it would win her another Pulitzer. “And honestly? Not even a very good one.” 

Santana doesn’t get it. Not yet.  She can be really slow sometimes.  It must come from living on a farm. “Brittany,” she says, slowly and carefully.  “You said that this was important.  The stuff he said about Superwoman-“ 

Yeah, Superwoman.   Brittany swallows against her hesitation, because Superwoman is supposed to be her ideal. 

But she can’t really bring herself to care.  Maybe she needs a new ideal.  “Yeah,” she admits.  “That’s important.  But so is scoring the hottest date in the room.” 

It’s so easy to say, because it’s true.  And you know what? She should be proud.  She IS proud. 

Santana Lopez is here for _her_ , looking like the hottest girl nerd on the planet, for _her._   She’s also looking at Brittany like she’s nuts, but seriously, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that it feels like Brittany’s won the lottery, and what kind of stupid is she if she doesn’t try to cash in her winning ticket?  

So she’s doing this.  

Maybe Santana is destined to be her best friend, but maybe she’s also destined to be more than that. 

Maybe she’s also destined to be in Brittany’s bed tonight, with her legs clamped hard around Brittany’s ears. 

She’d make her keep the heels on. And the glasses. 

The thoughts must show on her face;  Santana’s cheeks go as red as her dress.  

She’s staring at Brittany like that one time Brittany forgot and spoke to her in her own special middle school language.  

“I didn’t think that ethnic people blushed,” she says, smile widening as Santana’s cheeks go even redder. “It’s adorable.” 

“I… shut up!” 

It’s all Santana can say, and Brittany figures it’s good enough.  

“If I ask you to dance,” she begins, delicately as she can as she reaches forward and thumbs a touch against Santana’s wrist. “Do you think you’ll trip again?” 

“God, I hope not,” Santana breathes, and Brittany laughs.  She feels dizzy and suddenly winded. 

Santana’s skin is impossibly smooth, and Brittany can’t wait to touch more of it. 

She’ll kiss Santana tonight.  Santana’s mouth is lush and full and perfect for kissing. Already, she’s imagining it, and she thinks Santana is too, because those deep dark eyes are on her lips.  

It strikes a twinge of something in Brittany that’s exhilarating and amazing. 

It feels like she’s falling in love. 

“This next performer is better known for her charity work than her pipes,” she hears dimly, but it doesn’t actually register that its Mercedes speaking until she hears, “Quinn Fabray!” 

A flush of cold rushes down Brittany’s spine when Santana whirls and catches sight of the debutante that is now smiling prettily at the polite applause.  
Whatever spell they were both caught in, it’s just been broken. 

Mercedes ruined everything. _Again._

As if reading her mind, Mercedes searches the crowd and catches her eye.  When Brittany’s brow arches in annoyance, the other woman merely shrugs.  “Sorry,” she mouths and Brittany huffs in irritation. 

On stage, Quinn laughs in her trademark sexy, gravely tone as she leans into the microphone and says, “So, I was going to sing ‘I’ve Told Every Little Star’ by Linda Scott today.” Brittany rolls her eyes.  Of course she would.  _I’ve Told Every Little Star_ is bubblegum oldies pop, and it’s exactly the type of song Quinn, with her forgettable tenor, would sing.  “But I’ve run into an old friend from college tonight, and the nostalgia’s got me looking to do something with a little more bite.”  Hazel eyes move over the crowd until they’re on Brittany’s companion.  “But I may need some help.” 

She’s looking straight at Santana.  

Santana is looking right back. 

The anger that rumbles through Brittany’s chest feels downright animalistic.  She’s not one for misogyny but she totally understands now why cavemen thought it was totally okay to grab their women and like, throw them over their shoulders and live with them in a cave.  It’s kinda exactly what she wants to do with Santana, especially now that the entire room is staring at her in the exact same way Quinn is. 

Santana herself looks overwhelmed.  Her face is almost as red as the dress.  

“What do you say, Ms. Lopez?” Quinn asks gaily, eyes twinkling with mirth as she crooks her fingers.  “For old times’ sake?” 

Across the ballroom, Sebastian Smythe erupts in hoots and holler, which prompts his stupid band of Warblers to do the same, which lights up the entire room.  Everyone but Brittany is now clapping for Santana to join Quinn onstage. 

It’s the worst case of peer pressure ever. 

Santana’s head shakes so quickly it reminds Brittany of some sort of seizure. 

Quinn doesn’t seem to care.  “Come on!”  She moves her finger like Santana’s being naughty and starts down the stage.  The crowd parts for her like she’s Grace Kelly as she comes for Brittany’s date, arm outstretched regally. 

Brittany wants to smack her.  “You don’t have to,” she says immediately. She honestly can’t think of anything more horrendous to ask of Santana, who usually goes out of her way to stay away from any sort of limelight, to get up there.  

A strained sort of laughter chokes its way out of Santana’s throat. “It’s okay,” she says, and offers Brittany this small, shy smile.  “Quinn and I used to sing…” 

The realization hits Brittany like a sucker punch.  

She wants to. 

Santana Lopez, mild-mannered reporter, is totally fine with this.  

“Oh,” Brittany swallows, glance darting from the woman at her side to the other woman coming forward.  “Then you should go.” 

There’s a sparkle in Santana’s eyes.  It catches Brittany right in her chest, a special sort of heart burn.  “Save me that dance,” she says, and then she’s letting go of Brittany’s hand and taking hold of Quinn’s.  There’s a brief moment where Quinn’s eyes meet Brittany’s.  

Brittany looks right back.  She knows her expression is stony, and she wonders if Gay Fabray even remembers what happened between them, because she absolutely has to. 

Quinn dismisses her as quickly as she sees her.  She only has eyes for Santana, who lets herself be dragged through the crowd and up onstage.  Meanwhile, the crowd just continues to applause, because all they see is this totally hot Latin brunette and don’t have any idea who the hell Santana Lopez really is. 

For some reason, that one thing annoys the hell out of her. 

But no one seems to care.  Mercedes just smiles at Santana and hands her a microphone.  Santana Lopez just takes it, looking gorgeous in her beautiful dress and perfect figure, like it’s a totally normal thing to be dragged on stage to perform in front of  some of Metropolis’ most influential people. 

And Brittany hates how beautiful Quinn is.  She despises it.  Quinn is absolutely gorgeous, and when Santana stands next to her, they’re gorgeous together.  They’re a perfect contrast of blonde and brunette, pale and bronze, gorgeous and sultry.   

It’s infuriating that Brittany can do nothing at all. 

Santana stares at Quinn and a familiar smirk plays across her lips, like Quinn’s been some mischievous child.  Quinn’s arm slips around Santana without any sort of hesitation, and draws her in close to whisper in Santana’s ear. 

Quinn’s lips brush the outer shell of Santana’s ear.  Whatever Quinn says, it makes the other woman smile and nod. 

Brittany’s cheeks burn. 

The applause dies down as Quinn finally faces them.  “Let’s get ready to dance,” she says, and the orchestra obeys, trumpets launching jauntily into an intro that’s all Latin dance.  It’s meant to get feet tapping, hands clapping.  Santana falls into the rhythm easily, hips swaying to the beat. 

Oh, God.  It’s ‘Do You Wanna Dance’ by Mya. 

Brittany loves this song. 

“ _Funny thing is when I look into your eyes_ -” Quinn’s fingers reach out and take hold of Santana’s wrist, dancing along beside her as she winks. “ _I sense something so sincere in your disguise - You whisper secrets I hear only in my dreams - Then I wake up to your tele-smoke screen_ -“ 

Brittany hates this song. 

But she can’t look away.  She’s helpless as she stares, eyes pinned on her colleague, her date, lift the bedazzled microphone to her mouth and take the second verse. “ _I wait patiently while you play your game-“_ A rich, velvet voice floats out of Santana’s mouth with perfect pitch.  

Brittany’s eyes flutter closed. 

Dammit. 

Santana can sing. 

“ _'Cause in the end, I'll be the winner all the same, You'll see clearly when the song comes to a stop - I'll be the one blowing kisses from the top-“_

Santana can really, really sing. 

She can sing like Mercedes can sing. 

Why the hell didn’t Brittany know that? 

The crowd loves it.  It’s all rich idiots who can salsa, and they’re all showing off now, weaving in and out of each other’s arms as the duo of Quinn and Santana kill the Mya song. 

Even Mercedes is goofing off with Sam, enjoying the music and laughing as her husband does that stupid hip-thrusting thing he learned in the strip club and never forgot. 

She feels alone and forgotten, and it’s an ugly feeling. 

_“ Stop, you're surrounded, Love all around ya, One wrong move and I'll down ya- and that'll end ya - you should surrender - You'll never win - Unless you give in – So won't you give our love a chance?”_

They must have performed this exact song before sometime in those mysterious college days, because Quinn and Santana are doing actual choreography.  It’s sexy and it’s feminine, meant to turn on a room. 

“ _Or do you only wanna dance?”_

A very nice young man smiles at Brittany. “Excuse me, would you like to dance?” 

“No,” she snaps, ignoring him and watching Santana. 

Her colleague, the person she has known for more nearly a year, shimmies across the stage with the delicate grace of a woman who knows how to use her body in every possible way.  Every trace of clumsiness seems to have vanished and in its place is a strong, agile performer with strong lungs and so much confidence she oozes sex appeal.  

_“You put your lips very closely to my face, and then you run away and so begins the chase – I'll be the hunter, but boy, you better pray - 'Cause when I want ya, I'll get you anyway-“_

It’s not the same Santana Lopez who broke a heel just this morning or spilled coffee all over herself. 

But it is.  That same woman delicately leads Quinn around her as they harmonize perfectly, hips swiveling in a coordinated dance that’s complex and stunningly sexy. 

The Santana Lopez who nervous pushes her glasses up her nose, closes her eyes and wails this ridiculously gorgeous glory note that is so haunting it fills the room with astounded cheers and sends chills down Brittany’s spine. 

Brittany’s body is so heated she’s sweating. She feels flushed and exhausted, because all her emotion and energy that just minutes ago was singularly focused on falling in love with this person she believed that she knew distorts into a different kind of angry emotion because clearly Santana is not who she pretended to be. 

_“If you take my hands, and follow my lead I'll make you dance-“_

And it makes her think she never knew Santana at all. 

She feels like a fool. 

Santana catches her eye, smiles in her direction. Winks.  It’s seductive and gorgeous, this beautiful Santana who is putting on a show. 

Wounded in a way she can’t quite explain, Brittany can barely smile back. 

_“You'll never win unless you give in so won't you give our love a chance?”_

She endures the song.  She claps politely as it ends and the crowd erupts in hoots and hollers.  That forced smile that’s pasted on her face doesn’t fade as Santana and Quinn fall into their intimate embrace. 

She watches with eyes of a reporter, noting the way there is no personal boundaries, the way Quinn and Santana’s palms are open as they loosely lock their hands around each other’s waists, keeping each other close, hips to hips, chest to chest. 

It’s an absolute truth that once upon a time, Santana and Quinn were lovers. 

She was jealous before. 

She was furious just a moment ago. 

Now, as Quinn leans forward to quietly say something that’s means for Santana’s ears only, and Brittany watches as Santana laughs this gorgeous, beautiful laugh that she’s never heard before, she’s just kinda sad. 

Santana disentangles herself from Quinn’s hold and bows once again.  She makes her way through the crowd, thanking the guests who stop her and congratulate her on her hidden talent, making her way back to Brittany’s side.  

As she approaches, Brittany steels herself.  She sucks in her breath and when Santana’s shining eyes lock with hers, she does her best to smile back. 

“Wow,” she begins, and Santana flushes, shrugging like this is no big deal. “You were great.” 

“Thanks,” Santana breathes.  She looks so bright and ALIVE.  It makes the Santana that she’s used to, in her drab, ill-fitting clothes and messy hair and broken heels, feel black and white in comparison. 

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Brittany says.  It’s hard to make it sound like she’s happy about it.  Brittany kinda wants to cry.  

For once, Santana doesn’t seem to notice Brittany’s odd mood.  Maybe she’s too high on her own success.  People keep knocking into her and commenting on her voice, and Brittany has to wait until Santana thanks each one politely before the other woman can actually respond. “I didn’t know you could dance!” she says, bright and happy.  “I guess we’re finding out a lot about each other.” 

The smile is meant to be sweet and charming.  This new Santana, the one she doesn’t know, is confident and sweet and she’s teasing her… maybe even flirting with her.  Brittany wants to smile back.  She tries.  It’s hard when she’s staring so hard at Santana, trying to reconcile who she saw on stage with who she thinks she knows.  “I guess we are.  So… how do you know Quinn?”

 

Santana’s smile stalls, and Brittany understands why.  Her tone… it’s not as friendly as it could be.  

“We went to college together,” Santana answers, which… duh. 

“You look close.” Santana just shrugs again. 

“We _were_ close.” 

That’s it.  That’s all she’s giving her.  A stab of anger flushes through Brittany at Santana’s deliberate evasion. “How close?” 

Santana isn’t smiling anymore. “What’s this about, Brittany?” she asks, soft and concerned, like Brittany the one that’s acting weird. 

“I’m just curious.” 

Santana presses her lips together.  Her posture goes stiff.   “I said Quinn and I are friends.” 

God, there it is again. Half-truths. “Just friends?” she asks pointedly. 

But Santana doesn’t answer.  Her eyebrows furrow.  “Brittany,” she starts, voice now quiet and suspicious. “What’s the matter?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re interrogating me like I’m a story.” 

Yeah.  She is.  Brittany can’t exactly deny it. 

 “I’m just saying. Quinn has a reputation of getting ‘close’ with a lot of people.” 

It’s petty.  She’s basically called Santana’s friend a slut. 

Brittany knows it’s a low blow and Santana knows it too, because the other woman stops looking soft and concerned and starts looking angry.  “She’s not the only person here with a reputation, Brittany.”

It’s a pointed remark; it sounds exactly like Santana’s directing that at _her_. “What does that mean?”

Santana just looks at her. 

“Nothing.” Santana’s eyes close for a moment, then open again.  She looks at Brittany with an expression that’s impossible to decipher.  Another secret locked away from Brittany Pierce.  “I’m sorry,” she says and she sounds like she means it.

If she means it, if she’s apologizing to her, that means she was talking about her.

Brittany sucks in her breath hard.  It takes actual effort now, to tamp down her emotion, the sudden urge to feel ashamed and the immediate anger that follows because she shouldn’t be.  She SHOULDN’T be.

It shouldn’t matter what people say about her.

It does matter what Santana thinks about her.

It matters a lot.

This whole party, meant to be a fun distraction, an easy way to get a story and maybe protect a gorgeous superhero who doesn’t exactly need protecting, has gone to hell. Brittany was supposed to go with one of her best friends and instead she’s here with a stranger.  A beautiful stranger that she wishes desperately she actually knew, because as amazing as her Santana is, this one seems…

Super.

Brittany blinks. 

There’ s an itch, a thought that germinates at the back of Brittany’s brain that feels like a tickle.  It means something, she knows it does.  It’s the piece of the puzzle and it is exactly the missing piece.

She’s distracted with a touch, soft and gentle, as a slender finger lifts her chin and once again Brittany is caught by those gorgeous brown eyes behind those glasses.

The tickle flees in the face of Santana’s smile. “Hey,” Santana’s voice is soft and careful.  “Quinn asked me to sing.  That’s all.”

Yes, logically, rationally, that’s exactly what happened.

“I don’t think that’s all she wants, Santana,” she admits, and with a hitched breath realizes that she’s pressed her own palm on top of Santana’s, keeping the other woman’s fingers intimately pressed against her cheek. 

Embarrassed, she tries to let go, but Santana’s palm just turns, until their palms are pressed flat against each other and the digits have intertwined together.

They’re tangled up in each other, skin to skin. 

Brittany’s heart pounds; she wonders suddenly if Santana can feel it through her fingertips.

Her eyes lift from their entwined fingers to Santana and her sweet, sweet smile. “It doesn’t matter what she wants, Brittany,” says her clumsy and yet graceful reporter with an apparent double life.  “I’m here with _you_.”

God, she’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful and she’s here, holding Brittany’s hand, looking at her like Brittany’s beautiful too.

She doesn’t know Santana as well as she should.  Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe she has the rest of the night to discover just how much more amazing she can be.

Music swells around them, a slow waltz that has many couples dancing, but few dancing well.

Brittany decides it’s a sign.

“I think you owe me a dance, Santana,” she says, fully aware of how husky her voice gets. 

Santana’s throat bobs in response.  Brittany wants to suck on that exact spot.  “I think I do.”

Brittany’s smile is shy.  She doesn’t want to let go, so she leads Santana away from the bar and towards the dance floor, feeling like a besotted gentleman courting a lady. 

It’s a delicate, precious moment, until Santana abruptly stops moving.  Their hands hang between them, but the smile is gone from Santana’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

Santana blinks and suddenly looks at her, like she’s forgotten Brittany was even in the room.  Her head bobs back behind her.   “… Actually, I’m sorry.  Can you hold that thought?”

Brittany doesn’t understand. “What?”

“I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, Santana breaks her hold on her and moves away, ducking through the crowd and speeding toward the exit. 

Brittany can only watch in disbelief. 

Her frazzled emotions can no longer take the strain. She feels like her entire body has just short-circuited.

“Seriously?!”


	5. So Close (And Yet So Far)

God-fucking-dammit.

Fuck her super hearing. Seriously, FUCK it. 

Her super hearing can go to hell. 

It takes more patience than Santana thinks she actually possesses to get through the black-tie crowd that litters the ballroom floor. Propriety suggests she moves quietly and at a snail’s pace until she can clear the room, because though Santana can move faster than a speeding bullet, this room is filled to the brim and someone will probably notice. 

She smiles mutely, brushing quickly past a person who tries to engage her. 

"Girl, I know you didn't just ignore me!" 

Santana freezes momentarily, struck at the realization that the person is actually Mercedes Jones, who stares back at her with an lifted arch of her eyebrow that screams momentary annoyance. 

"Bathroom." is what she manages, curt and quick. 

Mercedes only stares at her, obviously unsure what to think. Santana does not have the luxury to indulge Brittany's friend's confusion. With a simple, strained apologetic smile, she keeps her pace, fully aware that she is walking away from Mercedes, Brittany's best friend. 

In her haste, she knocks the side of a waiter's elbow. A silver tray filled with little sliders clatters loudly to the floor. 

Once again, all eyes are on Santana Lopez. Clumsy, moronic Santana Lopez. 

From across the room, Brittany's blue eyes flash at her. 

A battle of wills rages inside of Santana. Briefly, she wonders if she has perhaps developed the capacity to be human after all. Selfishly, she wants so terribly to ignore the human voice that cries for help at a decibel that from this distance only she can hear, to turn back to Brittany and Mercedes and this room and remember what it was like to be human and admired for one simple moment. 

There is so very little that Santana feels she has any right to expect. She’s an illegal alien, masquerading behind the face of a human woman. Every last part of her is a farce and a lie. But she has a humanoid body, a heart that beats and lungs that breathe and the capacity to love these humans and that's close enough, isn't it?

Santana doesn't consider herself particularly religious (although much of her 'grandmother's Catholic teachings dig deep inside of her even today) but her similar physiology is enough of a coincidence that makes her want to believe that maybe there is a part of her that's meant for Earth. 

It’s so easy to forget that she is not actually one of them. 

Up until this moment, Santana allowed herself to be spellbound. She has been intoxicated and overwhelmed by the sheer tremendous force of Brittany Pierce and it was too easy to be distracted by the kindling hope that erupted inside her and whispered that maybe that magnetic look in Brittany’s eyes was finally meant for Santana Lopez and not Superwoman. 

So she made a mistake. She forgot, for the briefest of moments, that something so simple as a dance with someone who shares an attraction is not a luxury that she is allowed. 

Not when along with her superhuman heart, her superhuman lungs, and her superhuman body, she also has superhuman hearing. 

It speaks to her weakness that she is torn for even the tiniest of moments. Santana has learned how to block out the world, but there are those chosen few that will always, ALWAYS, sneak past her defenses. 

And so, even when every inch of her was involved with all things Brittany, she heard a nagging whisper that became an itch: a voice calling out with such terror and panic that to ignore it is unthinkable. 

This was no random civilian screaming desperately for help, a voice coated with terror, panic and desperation. 

This is Quinn Fabray. 

It’s Quinn’s voice she hears, calling out for help. She begs for support, to be saved, and what's all the more striking is that she shrieks not for Superwoman, but for Santana.

“Santana, please!” Quinn pleads, so faint and far away it would never reach a normal human’s ears.

There is no time for clumsiness or forced awkwardness or speculation. There is no time for regrets. 

Santana whirls away from the waiter feverishly gathering together tiny buns and greasy burgers and races for the wide doors that exit the ballroom. 

She doesn't look back. 

She finds herself turning down a hallway, whirling quickly past the coat check in such a blur the coat check girl can only wrinkle her nose at the sudden breeze, before she finds herself in a narrow hallway, an offshoot of Mercedes' extravagant home that is closed off with velvet ropes, a polite and nearly useless way of informing guests that this part of the house is off limits. 

Here, Santana wastes no time in yanking off her glasses. Off come the glasses. Off comes the mask. 

She hears the grunts of the men who are with Quinn, just like she can easily make out the sound of her friend struggling, feet digging into shins and small fists batting at stronger muscle, kicking and shouting and crying out in fear and desperation for Santana until suddenly, Quinn isn’t shouting anymore.

"Fuck," she breathes, and once again thanks whatever deity granted her X-Ray vision. Though Santana can hear the chaos as loudly as if Quinn were in the next room, she only has to squint her eyes to bleed through the solid plaster of the walls that surround her to make out a scene that takes place just outside of a dark corner of the house, and the cluster of figures that surround Quinn. 

There’s no time to do anything but grip the bag she pilfered from the coat check, shift into super speed and follow the scent of Quinn, weave through the halls, and around a corner, breaking toward a narrow door that leads toward a side exit. 

She tumbles out of the door as Superwoman. 

She finds herself at some sort of service entrance. It's dark and deserted and smells of mildew. Thanks to her speed, she is able to assess the scene quickly and discover with a sinking heart that it is indeed as bad as she feared. Her friend Quinn is unconscious, slumped back in the arms of a heavily built man who is too absorbed in his task of dragging Quinn to a waiting car to realize they have just been interrupted. 

"Superwoman!" 

The same cannot be said for the three men who are with him. There is a cry of surprise, a shout and a point, and that is all they have time for before Santana flies hard at them. It takes nothing more than a sharp exhale of air to send one tumbling back, denting the car door as he slams hard against it. Another raises a gun with a silencer, but gets no further than trying to point it before the wrist is broken and his windpipe is nearly crushed. The third is dispatched as easily as a roach: a shift of her balance and her heel thrusts forward, digging deep into his abdomen and nearly crumpling him in half. 

Quinn's captor is smarter than most. He wastes no time in thrusting Quinn harshly away from him, before taking flight in the other direction. Santana has no choice but to catch hold of the unconscious woman before Quinn hits hard on the loose gravel that makes up the driveway. 

He hurls himself into the waiting sedan. Santana watches as it slams forward, spitting gravel at them both as it veers fast toward the dark entrance. 

Santana could go after him. She should. This is... random. She doesn't understand the situation, or what led to it. Just minutes ago, Quinn was on stage with her. This is a celebrity event, with guards and valets. This is a private mansion. There should be no reason why thugs are here now, accessing an alley that is clearly used so rarely there is no need for proper pavement. 

Something about this just isn't right.

"Santana?" a weak, husky voice whispers up at her. Superwoman lowers her head and discovers Quinn's hazel eyes blinking blearily, struggling to focus. The lack of light in this alley do well to nearly hide her features, and Santana is momentarily distracted. 

"You okay?" she asks, because Quinn's pupils are dilated and though she is beginning to squirm in her arms, her limbs are still shaky. "Quinn." 

Quinn doesn't answer her. 

It's at that moment that Santana, who has forgotten her mask more than once tonight, remembers that this woman has seen her at her most intimate without Chloe's magic glasses. 

The glasses she is not wearing now. 

"Santana?" Quinn says again, and though her eyes are clouded with pain, there is recognition in those dark eyes. 

"Oh, Fuck." 

\--

It's not like Brittany Pierce is made of porcelain. She's had her share of heartbreak, and she's a survivor of a lifetime of bullying. There's nothing about her that is delicate. This is a woman who flings herself off rooftops, and it doesn't matter that there is always someone there to catch her, the fact remains that Brittany never expects it. 

She gets herself into her own scrapes and she gets herself out of them, and she doesn't need to rely on anyone for her own self-worth or her own happiness. 

It's the reason she takes her pleasure where she can find it, why she prides herself on having her own bylines, and why she chooses to have bang buddies instead of a real relationship. 

She's not the girl she was in high school. She's the woman who opened this party with a sensual, jaw-breaking version of 'Circus' that captivated the room and she's the drop dead gorgeous vixen who stands in this ballroom with admiring eyes, both male and female, lingering on her perfect form. 

She shouldn't need anyone. 

And she should NOT feel this devastated just because Santana left her. 

Her insides churn; her chest is tight and there are actual tears that sting in her eyes, and it's a ridiculous, over-the-top reaction. 

Why is she even this upset? 

"Lose your date?" A masculine voice whispers suddenly. The breath of a figure that has invaded her personal space without her permission, tickles her ear. 

Brittany shudders, whirling to discover herself face to face with a familiar, handsome man with a narrow face and dancing, malicious eyes. 

"She's not my date, she's my partner." The moment the words come out of her mouth, Brittany feels almost ashamed of them. It's a reflex, automated and completely untrue. 

Sebastian Smythe grins, tilting a whiskey in her direction as he nods in the direction that Santana has disappeared. "And yet here you are, looking like someone just shot your puppy. Can't say I blame you," he continues flippantly. "Hate to see her leave but love to watch her go, right?" 

It's such a flippant, gross remark, and it disgusts Brittany that a man, even a gay man, can with so little effort reduce a women like Santana Lopez to nothing more than a great ass. 

"Wow so it turns out you're not just a bigot, but a misogynist," she finds herself snapping, determined to remain unimpressed. "You really are the whole package, aren't you?" 

He quirks an eyebrow, absorbing the annoyed statement. "Careful, Ms. Pierce. You and Ms. Lopez won't ever get your interview if you don't play nice." 

A chill runs down her spine. God, of course that's why he's here. He's an asshole and he thinks he has what Brittany wants. An hour ago, he'd be right. Brittany's hunger for her story would have overridden anything else, and she would have played his game. 

Now... 

She's not sure if it's her own frustration or just pure exhaustion from all the emotions that have been flitting through her, but she can't think of anything she can desire less than giving Sebastian Smythe one quote in her paper. 

"What makes you think that the Daily Planet would have any interest at all in anything you have to say?" 

He stares at her, somewhat surprised. "Oh, are you saying they wouldn't?" 

"I'm saying we have standards." 

He chuckles, finding what she just said to be oddly amusing. "I've read your work, Brittany Pierce. I wouldn't be so quick to boast about standards." 

It's a cheap shot, and Brittany hates that she's feeling so vulnerable right now to be actually stung by it. She takes a breath and states, "I saw your performance. I wouldn't be so quick to boast about anything." 

He absorbs that with the easiness of a man expecting such a response. "You know you're right." Sebastian takes a swig of whiskey and sneaks in closer, like they're old friends and he's confessing a secret. "I have been thinking about branching out. A man can only be a rich playboy for so long before that shit gets boring, right?" 

Brittany doesn't want to play his game. Her eyes remain on the exit through which Santana has disappeared. A passing waiter offers her a flute of champagne and Brittany takes it without hesitation. 

"I always thought I had a flair for reporting. None of the super hard hitting stuff, but I'd be a kick ass gossip columnist, doncha think?" 

He's still here. Brittany tilts the flute up and lets the champagne run into her mouth, surrounding her tongue with little carbonated tingles. She finds it to be a terrible source of comfort. "I'm not sure you have the instincts." 

"I disagree," he answers flippantly. "Gossip is all about people, and if it's one thing I'm an expert at, it's people." Brittany doesn't answer, but Sebastian doesn't seem the least bit annoyed. He creeps in closer, pressing in just as her shoulder as he lowers his tone. "For example, a person who knows people would find this evening VERY interesting." 

"I don't care, Sebastian." 

"Don't you? Who wouldn't find the makings of a tawdry lesbian love triangle completely delicious?" 

Brittany blood runs cold. She can't help but look, and discovers Sebastian's self-confident grin growing wider still. 

"It's got all the players. A gorgeous debutant, closeted for fear of losing her Republican father's bid for senate seat and her trust fund. A shy but gorgeous reporter - the quintessential ugly duckling just waiting to transform into a swan. And to round it all out," he continues skimming a finger over her bare shoulder in such a gentle, sleazy way she breaks out in disgusted goosebumps, "the slutty bisexual journalist who is so used to getting what she wants anytime and anyway she wants it, that she finds herself absolutely floored when for once, she may find herself on the losing end."

It's a low, terrifying blow. The way Brittany's stomach knots herself is so unpleasant she nearly gags. "You don't know what you're talking about." 

Sebastian just stares at her, reading her so easily. Brittany hates this. She can't stand the uncertainty, the insecurity, the way Sebastian sees it and seems to feed off of it like some sort of vampire. With a wink and a grin, he leans forward and merrily clinks his glass against Brittany's flute. 

"Don't take it personally, Ms. Pierce. Sometimes girls just prefer a little brains over a Circus Shimmy, that's all." 

Asshole. 

"It was nice to meet you." 

And he's gone, moving away from her as quickly as he came, disappearing back into the crowd and leaving Brittany with a muted, stupid expression. 

"Dammit," she snaps, so angry now she swears she can hear the glass crack in her hands. 

This is not who she is. This... feeble woman who is affected so easily, who cares so much... 

Tonight was meant to be a triumph. Tonight she should have been at the top of her game. She should have been the hunter, the hard-hitting reporter who took Sebastian's penchant for dry sarcastic words and thrown it back at him, used his weakness and exploited it for her own purposes. 

She should have gotten quotes that humiliated him, ammunition and the lead for her next investigative piece.

Instead she was merely a passing distraction, displayed herself so openly lovesick that he actually saw it, used it for his own amusement. 

He played her like one of those idiots in high school and it makes her feel so foolish... 

And for what? For a woman who isn't even here? A woman who pretended to be her friend but turned out to be a complete stranger? A woman who can't even be bothered to give her one dance? 

A woman who she thought she knew and thought she could love and instead is a complete stranger? 

Brittany can't stand it. She turns, ready to flee to the bathroom when a blurry figure of her old friend steps in the way. "Girl you are on FIRE. You got the girl AND your interview with Sebastian Smythe? You're working overtime!" 

It's then that Mercedes notices the moisture in Brittany's eyes; the way she looks so desperately miserable. The smile immediately fades. "What happened?" 

Brittany has no capacity to even begin to explain. Quietly, she shoulders her way past Mercedes and stalks for the bathroom. 

\--

Crickets chirp at them, louder even than the music that wafts at them from inside the house, and the occasional shriek of laughter or shout from a louder-than-average party guest. It's a little ridiculous how ignorant the group still is to what almost transpired just outside. 

"What is this, some sort of service entrance?" she asks, breaking the silence. 

"Deliveries, more than likely," Quinn answers, voice rough from the shouting she had done before. "Houses like this usually have them. Only the Help ever really uses them." 

They're sitting on the steps just outside of the house. Quinn has wrapped herself in the blazer of one of the unconscious thugs that Santana has carefully tied together with the garden hose she found just around the corner and tucked into a nearby garden shed: a perfect parcel for the cops when Santana is ready to give them to them. 

But her first priority is Quinn. Her old friend is clearly shaken. She is not ready to face the ballroom crowd quite yet, and Santana doesn't blame her. A reddish bruise will slowly go purple on Quinn's cheek, and the woman, who Santana has always known to be a little bit crazy and a deceptively strong, is carefully applying concealer. She's dotting the same on her puffy lower lip, split from an overenthusiastic smack from the idiotic who tried to shut her up.

Quinn is reapplying her mask, and because Santana understands it, she lets her. But she can't help but feel naked beside her. 

Santana's usual rescues tend to be very much like one-night stands. In and out, with a quick explanation for the cops and a reassuring smile for the victim, before she's flying off again to dive into some corner and put herself back together as Santana Lopez, mild-mannered reporter. 

Even her interactions with Brittany, her metaphorical Achilles Heel, have been quick and concise, though for a very different reason. She's never trusted herself to spend more than a few minutes with the other woman and not give something away. The way Brittany looks at her when she's Superwoman... it's both tempting and honestly, heartbreaking, especially when minutes later those same eyes fall upon Santana Lopez and see nothing but a friend. 

"Thank you for saving me." 

But that isn't the problem here. The problem is that Quinn knows who she is. Quinn, it appears, has known all along. 

Santana doesn't even know how to address it. She settles for addressing the other pressing matter. "What happened, Quinn?" 

Quinn's movements pause. She licks her lips. A puff of air floats out of her wounded mouth as she exhales. "I don't know," she answers. "I honestly don't know," she insists, when Santana continues to stare. "One minute I was heading to the bathroom to freshen up after you and I performed, and the next some guy caught me in the hall, said that he was security and he needed me to come with them because there had been some sort of threat and before I knew it... I was being dragged out here." 

Santana's mouth twitches. "So you have no idea who those men are." 

A soft, exasperated chuckle is Quinn's only reaction. "I'm the daughter of a bigoted asshole who is running for Senate. My Dad spews so much vitriol to so many different oppressed groups in favor of the rich white man I couldn't even begin to tell you where to begin, Santana." Hearing her name and wearing this suit... it's startling. Santana can't help the wince that overtakes her. Quinn notices. "Sorry, should I have said Superwoman?" 

Santana closes her eyes and allows herself one moment not to panic. "How long have you known?" she asks, lifting her head and leveling her stare at her friend. 

Quinn's teasing smirk fades. "I suspected the second I knew you were in town," she answers seriously. "But I didn't know for sure until tonight." When Santana's brows furrow, Quinn's smile returns. "I mean, let's be honest, the Santana Lopez I knew in college wouldn't be caught dead running around in skin-tight red and blue spandex saving total strangers." 

God... she's right though. Santana shakes her head at the wonder of it all. 

"The outfit's cute, though," she hears, and finds herself battling the urge to laugh hysterically. "I like the boots." 

"Oh God, shut up, bitch," she snaps, and palms her face to save herself from having to see Quinn's smug expression. "I know, it's awful. No need to rub it in." 

"I think it's hot, actually."

Santana can only blush. "Thank you," she sighs, and lifts her shoulders, examining the ridiculous outfit and the proud 'S' that curves onto her cleavage. "I didn't pick it, but I do admit, these boobs are gravity defying in this top." 

Quinn laughs lightly. It dies into silence, and Quinn waits only a moment before asking in a serious, careful tone, "Does Brittany know?" 

The half-smirk that settled on Santana's features fades, and she discovers herself unable to look at her friend as she battles the sudden lump in her throat. "No," she answers, quietly and carefully. 

"Oh," she hears, before Quinn exhales softly. "Well then that's awkward." Santana turns her head and studies her friend carefully. "She doesn't exactly keep her ladyboner for Superwoman a secret, you know?" Quinn says, and Santana's jaw clenches at the reminder. "It bleeds all over her articles. It must suck to know you can have her... but not as yourself." 

If there is something Quinn has always been good at, it's twisting a knife. It's kinda admirable, really, the way it's almost unconscious. "No one's supposed to know, Quinn," she snaps, because it stings to know that that may have changed if it wasn't for what happened to Quinn. "It's called a secret identity for a reason." 

She wrings her hands together and closes her eyes in frustration. After a moment, a soft touch lightly skids across her thumb, before retreating just as quickly. 

She looks. Quinn smiles softly. "Don't worry, Superwoman," she whispers with a reassuring nod. "I've kept your secrets and you've kept mine. We're good." 

And it's true. If it's one thing she and have between each other, it's a lifetime of secrets. Quinn and she wears their masks, and it makes sense then, that Quinn would see through hers so easily. She's so adept at creating her own. 

"And judging by the daggers one Ms. Brittany Pierce was glaring at me during our little performance tonight, I highly doubt her lady boner will remain exclusive to just one Superhero." 

It's Quinn being reassuring, and it's silly that after being nearly kidnapped and knocked unconscious, she's even attempting to comfort Superwoman, of all people. 

Santana isn't sure how to even begin to convey how much she appreciates it. 

Instead, she launches to her feet and with strong hands, carefully lifts Quinn to her feet. "Come on, Gorgeous. Let's get you back. Then I have a session with an unconscious group of thugs who have a lot of explaining to do." 

And they aren't the only ones. As she follows Quinn inside, Santana's own heart sinks, because she isn't sure how she will even begin to explain to Brittany why they won't get their dance. 

"Damn," she breathes. Quinn offers her a quick glance back. "Being a superhero sucks ass, you know?" 

"No," Quinn says, in such an incredulous dry tone that Santana can't help but chuckle in response. 

\--

Mercedes has a private bathroom on this floor that is usually locked, and for very good reason. It's immaculate and gorgeous, and so delicate that Mercedes does not trust Sam to ruin it with his farting and Man-Poop. It is fitted with a gorgeous vanity that is kept so perfect and free of streaks that Brittany hates it right now. 

She can see herself so clearly, and what she sees is frightening. Her perfect posture has been overtaken by a pathetic slump, and her eyes, so perfectly made up just minutes ago, are swollen and red with her crying. She's smeared practically all her mascara, and it's no wonder Mercedes is as furious as she is. 

Brittany hasn't been this ... broken in a while. 

"I'm going to kill 'em," Mercedes says, seconds before she hands Brittany another tissue. 

"Who?" she huffs miserably, and crumples the tissue in her hands, trying to stop the liquid as it runs from her nose. 

"It doesn't matter who. All of them. I'm going to start with that little asshole weasel who thinks he can come to MY house and insult MY best friend. Then I'm going to go after that closeted Diva bitch who thinks it's okay to steal my girl's date out from under her nose and THEN I'm going to take that four-eyed reporter and teach her how to properly appreciate my girl's heart when it's handed to her like the delicate flower it is." 

Mercedes didn't even stop to take a breath. Brittany sniffles, and discovers that she actually does feel a tiny bit better. Still... "That's a lot of people to kill, Mercedes." 

"So?" Mercedes asks stubbornly. "I'm an over-achiever. And they all deserve it. Especially Santana and her fake-sincere ass." 

The way she nearly spits out Santana's name doesn't quite sit well with Brittany. Yes, she has just spent the better part of ten minutes blubbering the confusing events of the last half hour to her friend and of course she's hoping for sympathy and a push in the right direction, but... 

She's known Santana for a year, and Santana is not flippant. 

Santana is anything but flippant. She is fierce and loyal, and she has gone so far as to prove it by sticking pills up her cat's ass. 

That is the Santana she knows, and that is the Santana she saw when that beautiful stranger pressed fingers against her cheek and told her that she was here for Brittany... just Brittany. 

The same Santana who called their friendship a partnership. 

And yes, Brittany is a blubbering mess, and yes, she's been reduced to an insecure idiot, but none of that has been Santana's fault. All Santana has done is look gorgeous and sing and run away, and maybe... maybe Brittany owes her a little leniency. 

She sniffles, and tosses the tissue with the others. "We don't even know what happened, Mercedes." 

"She ran out on my girl, that's what happened." 

God, should it be that simple? 

No... of course not. It's never that simple. 

"Yeah," she agrees haltingly, "But, why?" Why: the word that was the lifeblood of a reporter. Brittany straightened, swiveling from the mirror and facing her friend. "I mean... Santana does stuff, but she's always had a reason." 

Mercedes is not a reporter. She is a professional singer with a professional singer's attitude. "You say reason, I say excuse." 

"No..." That itch... that itch that buried itself in Brittany's brain; it starts moving again, and it calms the tears, settles her emotions. Brittany discovers herself gnawing her lower lip with concern, rather than self-pity. "Mercedes, what if there's something that's actually wrong?" 

"Oh, now you're worried about her?" 

Brittany huffs, eyes rolling at Mercedes' skeptical nature. "Look, you said yourself that I have to open my eyes, right? Well, I'm doing that. And I just... I'm a reporter, you know?" Brittany considers Santana and her curious ways... the way she smiles, the way she carries herself so carefully and carelessly at the same time. "I shouldn't have a blind spot when it comes to my friends." 

Mercedes, God bless her, is still in her furious 'the Bullies Made Brittany Cry' mode. "That doesn't excuse -" 

"That doesn't excuse me not knowing she could sing," she admits sadly. "It doesn't excuse me not realizing how gorgeous she is when she smiles. It doesn't excuse me not knowing where the hell she goes when she goes running off like this." 

Mercedes opens her mouth, ready to refute that, when she's struck by another thought instead. "... She does this a lot?" 

Brittany licks her lips, and remembers instances, so many of them, when she's seen that exact same look on Santana's face, seconds before she... runs off. 

God... it happens so often. 

How has Brittany not noticed it? 

"Yeah," she breathes. "You know what? Come to think of it? She does this a lot." 

There's a moment of quiet, before Mercedes shuffles another chair nearer to Brittany's and places the box of tissues on the vanity. "You think there's something she's not telling you?" 

Suddenly somber, Brittany nods quietly. "I think there's something she doesn't trust me enough to tell me." 

Mercedes sighs. "I still get to kick Sebastian and Quinn's asses, right?" 

She seems so put out that Brittany can't help but give her a hug. "Yes," she whispers, squeezing hard. "Please have at it. But leave Santana to me." 

"What are you going to do?" 

Brittany swivels back in her chair and inspect herself. With a resolute sigh, she grabs hold of another tissue and begins to dab at her eyes, doing her very best to make herself presentable again. "I'm going to find her," she begins, because that's the simplest and most important part of the plan. "Make sure she's okay. And then I'm going to yell at her for walking out on me again." 

"Sounds solid," Mercedes quips dryly. "And then?" 

Brittany works the wand of the mascara she pilfered from her purse and gently works the wand on her lashes. "And then I'm going to shove my tongue down her throat," she decides quite sincerely. "And after I hit that, we are going to go back to writing Pulitzer Prize winning articles together, because it's Brittany, bitch, and I deserve the job and the girl." 

She puts the mascara down. She's not perfect, but she's presentable. 

"Hell, yeah you do," Mercedes says, and pumps her fits in the air for emphasis. 

Brittany grins. "Thanks. Come on," she says, after a deep breath for strength. "Help me go get my girl." 

"Oh," Mercedes tuts, as Brittany opens the bathroom door and leads them into the secluded hallway it's nestled in. "So now she's your girl? An hour ago you were just friends." 

"Oh shut up," she snaps. This is not the time for teasing. 

"And what about Superwoman?" Mercedes asks, brow raised. 

Brittany grins, looking back as she turns the corner, because she knows the correct answer to this one. Finally. "Superwoman who?" 

And that's how she plows directly into Superwoman herself, who steadies her as best she can considering her other arm is currently wrapped around the waist of one Quinn Fabray. 

"Brittany!" Superwoman says, dark brown eyes narrowed with concern. "You okay?" 

Brittany has no words. At tall. None. No sentences to form. 

"Wow, Superwoman," Quinn Fabray says, in her stupid husky sexy voice. "Looks like she's forgotten you already." 

Superwoman; gorgeous, beautiful, unbelievably perfect Superwoman. 

Crap.


	6. Beautiful Stranger

Being starstruck is not a habit that Brittany can afford to keep. She’s a reporter, a great one, and she didn’t rise to this level in her profession without knowing when to be passionate, and when to push her emotions away. She has learned to read any situation and be respectful of it. She’s learned how to toe the line and be unafraid to push and challenge a situation or a person. She can lull even the most paranoid politician or celebrity into such a false sense of security, when she inevitably pulls the rug out from under them, they’re left so blindsided they can’t help but give her complete honesty. 

Brittany’s certainly had missteps, (she’s quirky for a reason) but she didn’t become the number one reporter at the Daily Planet without reason. Such habits have become nearly second nature to her. She’s seasoned and good at her job, and that confidence has given her the power to maintain a similar sort of poise in her personal life, despite whatever insecurities are still inside of her. 

But when faced with Superwoman… 

She’s not delusional enough that she thinks Superwoman is her friend, but they’ve run into each other several times now. And yet, every single time, for some infuriating reason, this poised, passionate, sexy reporter devolves into a smitten idiot. 

It’s kind of astounding then that this time feels… different. 

She’s actually able to keep her head. Superwoman is still the gorgeous brunette from before, but… 

Maybe it’s the circumstances. They’ve run into each other in a perfectly safe hallway, not plummeting off the roof, airborne and speeding toward Brittany’s inevitable death. Brittany’s heart isn’t pumping so hard she’s afraid it may kill her with the adrenaline thanks to that near-death experience and the chase that probably occurred right before it. Superwoman’s gorgeous raven curls aren’t seductively floating over her shoulders as they’re floating gracefully down to earth in an intimate embrace. And, if Brittany is going to be truly honest, the lighting in this hallway doesn’t compare at all the sun’s rays that do so well to highlight Superwoman’s perfect cheekbones and plump lips. 

It’s not doing anyone any favors, really. Mercedes may be super rich, but she’s also cheap (most rich people, Brittany has noticed, are. Which is probably why they’re the ones with all the money), and that means she’s lit her back hallways with those energy efficient gross fluorescent bulbs that Brittany hates because it washes her out and casts shadows under her eyes. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that she isn’t Santana? Even in the face of Superwoman, Brittany finds herself missing glasses, a red dress and a sweet smile from an off-beat reporter who has gone missing. 

The fact that Brittany even takes the time to think about all of that is ridiculous, but she has always been disturbingly one-track when she wants to be (her shrink called it hyper-focus) and though she knows she came out of this bathroom with a mission, now that she’s faced with those dark gorgeous eyes that seem so hauntingly familiar and that deceptively tiny body that always seems so imposing when Superwoman is flying, she finds herself wondering more about the circumstances of their meeting. 

Was it hero worship all this time? 

They’re staring, she realizes. All of them, because Superwoman called her by name and asked if she was all right, which means the polite thing to do would be to respond that she is just fine. Brittany finds that any words of reassurance are stuck in her throat, blocked by the odd discovery that a) Superwoman is standing in Mercedes’ hallway, and b) she’s doing so with Quinn Fabray in her arms. 

Thank God Mercedes, though obviously surprised, seems at least capable of speech. “Superwoman!” Superwoman’s dark eyes avert away from Brittany and instead focus on her friend. “What are you doing here?!” Mercedes sounds oddly nervous, and Brittany realizes why when she swivels and glares at her accusingly. “Tell me you didn’t try and invite her as your date!” 

It’s an accusation that seems to come out of left field, and Brittany blinks, momentarily offended. Yes, she’s got a crush, but she’s not a STALKER. 

Superwoman, however, doesn’t give her the chance to defend herself. “Ms. Jones,” she breaks in with that husky voice of hers that usually goes straight to Brittany’s groin. “Unfortunately I have some bad news.” Brittany would be more interested in hearing what that news is, if she wasn’t quite so fixated on the way Superwoman’s palm stays comfortably spread intimately against Quinn’s waist, keeping the taller woman curled in tightly against her. Quinn allows it, welcomes it even. She rubs against Superwoman’s thumb distractedly, and it brings to the forefront of Brittany’s mind such a sense of déjà vu that she finds herself blinking back the mirror image, remembering suddenly the way Quinn’s fingers flicked loosely around Santana’s waist in a much similar way. “A group of armed men just tried to kidnap Miss Fabray and smuggle her out of one of your service entrances.” 

The memory flies immediately from Brittany’s focus, as her eyes widen with the news. 

“Excuse me?” Mercedes sputters, because yes, this is an unexpected turn of events. 

“I was almost kidnapped from your charity gala, Mercedes,” says Quinn, in a voice that WOULD be her usual condescending, bitchy tone, had it not sounded so obviously weak. “By thugs,” she adds, like that is the most insulting part of the ordeal. 

Brittany’s mouth twitches as she studies Quinn. It’s odd, the way she sees Quinn in Superwoman’s arms and feels almost grateful that it’s Superwoman and not Santana this time. It allows Brittany the motivation to look at Quinn with eyes that are not distasteful or jealous. 

What she sees is jarring. Quinn’s hair, previously so carefully swept into perfect curls, is now disheveled and nearly messy. There is an overcompensation of make-up on Quinn’s left cheek that does an admirable effort to hide the bruise blossoming against the usually flawless, fair skin. 

Quinn, usually so poised and perfect, digs her teeth down into her lower lip, an obvious attempt to steady herself because it’s clear that she’s trembling. 

She’s never seen Fabray like this. She’s never seen the mask Quinn wears so dangerously close to cracking. 

It’s unnerving. 

Brittany exhales slowly, turning to catch Mercedes eyeing her wildly, obviously unsure how to take what Superwoman is saying. “Is she serious?!” 

“I’m afraid I’m very serious, Ms. Jones,” Superwoman says, and Brittany finds herself nodding somberly, lips pressed together as she stares at Quinn once again. 

Yes, they’ve had their differences. Yes, Brittany’s never tried to understand Quinn or her position or why on earth she would think it’s worth it to closet herself for the sake of her bigot father’s career. But she would never wish this on her. 

“Are you okay?” she finds herself asking. 

Quinn Fabray stares at her, surprised. Brittany guesses she can understand why. “Yeah,” Quinn says after a moment. “Lucky for me, Superwoman was in the neighborhood … “ 

Fingers press in at Superwoman’s shoulder, and the superhero and the debutant share a quiet, unspoken familiar look. 

Brittany’s oddly naked heart, vulnerable after being so bruised this evening, tightens in her chest. The uncomfortable feeling it induces wars with her itching mind. 

There it is again – that FEELING that makes Brittany want to dig her fingers into her scalp and scratch out her frustration. 

Is it jealousy? Maybe. She should be jealous, of course she knows that. She’s used to being the damsel in Superwoman’s arms. She’s used to being the one who Superwoman smiles at, but that’s stupid, because Superwoman saves a lot of people, and Brittany knows that she shouldn’t be special. 

But she does feel it. Every time Superwoman scoops her in her arms, in those quiet moments before they touch the ground, Brittany feels like they share something intimate. Like they KNOW each other. They don’t feel like strangers; not when those brown eyes stare at her with this unsettling familiarity that makes Brittany think … 

She doesn’t know what to think. 

But oddly, in the space of an evening, Brittany’s discovered that it doesn’t quite matter. Not when her one-track mind has accepted and chosen Santana. 

So… maybe a bruised ego? Maybe that’s what makes this uncomfortable? Brittany has always been proud, and she never likes to lose… 

Or maybe she’s just a reporter used to sniffing out leads, and that’s what makes her think that there’s more to this than a woman who has just been saved from a kidnapping appreciating her savior. 

She decides to forget it. Brittany has had enough of worrying about Quinn Fabray this evening. 

“It’s kinda her thing,” she says, in a tone that is more flippant than actually snide. “Guess it’s someone else’s turn today to fall into your arms.” 

It’s supposed to come off like a joke… 

It doesn’t. 

It just comes off as awkward. Superwoman, being a superhero whose job it is to save people (duh), looks completely unsure what to do, so she says nothing at all. Quinn just rolls her eyes, which makes it worse, because of course now Brittany looks jealous, which is infuriating because she’s just realized in this really awesome epiphany that she’s NOT, and it makes Mercedes staring at her with this furious glare that much more annoying. 

“Quinn,” she breathes, fighting hard to get her composure back and redirect the conversation. “Quinn, did you recognize the kidnappers?” 

Quinn’s throat bobs. Her eyes flutter for a moment, and then she slowly shakes her head. She notes the tired, scared eyes on the usually picture-perfect face. 

“So you have no idea why they would try and take you?” Brittany’s voice is strong and steady, and thank God for that, because everyone finally starts to look at her like she’s human again. 

Once again, Quinn doesn’t speak. 

“We have no idea, Miss Pierce,” Superwoman says, in a formal, quiet tone that would sting if Brittany wasn’t trying so desperately not to feel a thing other than her usual reporter’s hunger. “That’s what the Metropolis Police and I need to figure out. If we don’t find out who they are, there’s no guarantee they won’t try again.” 

That’s true. Brittany crosses her arms, lost in thought. “This is a celebrity event. Mercedes has hired more security than Fort Knox. How did they even get to you?” 

“Ms. Fabray says these men gained access to her from backstage, right after her performance with Ms. Lopez.”

Hearing Santana’s last name from Superwoman’s throat brings with it an odd feeling, but it’s overtaken immediately by a somber moment when Brittany realizes that that is nearly the last time she’s seen Santana herself. 

Suddenly the panic hits her so hard she can’t quite breathe. It feels like a clasp to the throat, choking the life out of her as she remembers the look on Santana’s face as she left her in the ballroom. 

If they tried to take Quinn… 

“Oh God,” Brittany breathes, because if that’s true… if that happened- 

She nearly stumbles, standing on her feet only thanks to Mercedes, who notices her horror and grabs hold of her. “I’m sure she’s fine,” she says immediately, trying to be reassuring and failing miserably. 

Brittany only has eyes for Superwoman. “Please tell me they didn’t take anyone else,” she chokes out beseechingly.

The unreadable expression on Superwoman’s face is anything but comforting. “No,” she says slowly, and Brittany’s knees weaken. “I only saw Ms. Fabray.” 

It’s not good enough. Brittany fumbles for her purse, fingers shaking as she struggles with the zipper. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Calling Santana,” she mumbles, slipping her phone out and nearly dropping it in her haste. “Mercedes, this was an inside job, and Santana-“ 

“Brittany, don’t jump to conclusions,” Mercedes breathes, in that same voice she always uses when Brittany has an instinct that usually turns out to be right. “I’m sure Santana’s just fine-“ 

“You don’t know that!” 

“They didn’t take Santana,” Quinn snaps, with a certainty that makes Brittany want to punch her. Brittany instead wraps her fingers tighter around her phone, teeth gritting as she turns away from them all to focus on the ringing. The sound feels like a taunt. Every bit of her is on edge, waiting for the moment that Santana’s husky, gorgeous voice will pick up to greet her, the way she always does. 

“How are you so sure?” She dimly hears Mercedes ask. 

The phone goes to voicemail, causing her heart to stutter. “Fuck,” she snaps, loud and rudely. Mercedes jumps, but Brittany doesn’t care. “Santana,” she breathes, the second the greeting is finished and the tone beeps, “I don’t know where the hell you are or why the hell you left me, but if you don’t call me in the next five minutes, we are never working together ever again. I mean it.” Her eyes close; she forces herself to breathe. “Santana,” she begins again, gentler than before. “Please call me.” 

She can feel the heat of Superwoman’s stare blazing into the side of her face as she lowers the phone and stares at it miserably. Brittany can’t quite bring herself to care. 

“Why would they?” Quinn asks. “She’s just a reporter, isn’t she?” 

The casual dismissal of her sweet friend and her station is infuriating. She whirls, pinning Santana’s college fuck buddy with a glare of her own. “Seriously?” she snaps. “I thought you were her friend.” 

Quinn’s eyes grow cold. “I am her friend.” 

“Ms. Pierce, I’m sure that Santana is safe.” Superwoman says, and it’s the first time that Brittany can ever remember being this actively ANNOYED at the super-gorgeous being. 

“You said yourself you have no idea why they even tried to take Quinn,” she snaps, because Superwoman obviously has no clue how bad this could actually be. 

Superwoman actually looks taken aback. “Yes, that’s true but-“ 

“So if you’re right, and this an inside job, then the kidnappers have access to nearly every part of Mercedes’ house,” she explains, slow and clear so any idiot within hearing distance will understand. “And you have no way of knowing if Quinn was their only target. Quinn, who was last seen dancing and singing with Santana Lopez.”

It’s terrifying how easily the pieces fit. 

“Oh Lord Jesus,” Mercedes whispers. 

Every part of Brittany screams that it can’t be true, that Santana will come around the corner every second now, with those stupid glasses askew, telling her about the heel she broke or the way she got tangled in a random rope, or how her phone just ran out of battery because she forgot to charge it AGAIN. 

Just another excuse, just another mishap, and NOT a kidnapping. 

Brittany’s heart trembles in her chest; she dares herself to hope. 

“Santana is not kidnapped,” Quinn says again, sounding exasperated as she says it. “Okay? She’s… I told her to meet me … somewhere and she’s probably just there waiting for me.” 

“Oh hell no,” Mercedes breathes.

The chill that fills her is so unpleasant Brittany nearly splits her phone in half with the force of her grip. Slowly, she swivels on her heel the study the debutant. “Excuse me?” 

“Quinn-“ Superwoman starts, clearly trying to be some sort of mediator. 

“After the performance, I told her to meet me because I wanted to… talk to her…alone… and she promised that she would, so I asked her to come home with me to catch up-” She finishes the word in a squeak, as Superwoman shifts her weight and her hold on Quinn abruptly. 

The chill grows even colder. Brittany’s fury is now without measure. It’s worse than the hurt, or it would be, if Brittany was capable of feeling anything at all beyond the urge to crack her phone across Quinn’s already bruised face. 

“So what you’re telling me,” she begins, in her interviewer’s even tone, determined to get the facts straight before her head actually explodes, “Is that Santana agreed to meet you and spend the night with you, while on a date with ME?” 

Quinn actually seems to shrink from her glare. All the make up in the world can’t hide the way the blood drains from her face. “Okay, that came out wrong,” she says immediately. “Brittany, it’s not what it sounds like.”   
Brittany doesn’t care. 

This entire evening, Brittany’s been thrown off her game. Santana Lopez, in her gorgeous fitted red dress and sweet melodic voice is the cause. She’s the reason that Brittany has spent all night chasing love instead of leads. She’s the reason that Brittany has been called stupid today, has allowed Sebastian Smythe to get the better of her. She’s the reason Brittany decided to fall in love. 

Brittany was literally run into a bathroom sobbing as thanks for even attempting to open her heart, for acting against character, determined to fall in love with some fantasy version of her so-called partner in red lipstick and heels, who turned tail and ran, leaving her alone. 

God, this is why she doesn’t do love. This is why. No matter who it is, people can’t be trusted. It’s stupid and ridiculous, and it’s another reason why Brittany should have brought a bang buddy to this mess instead of Santana Lopez. 

And now there’s a story. A real scoop of a story that has literally been placed in her lap like a friggin’ Christmas present, and instead of being a professional, instead of being Brittany S. Pierce, Star Reporter, Brittany has become this heartbroken… fool. 

Because of love. Because of Santana. Who smiled at her and asked her to dance and then left her to meet Quinn Fabray. 

No. No. No. 

Fingers gently poke at her, forcing her attention away from the blonde. It’s Superwoman, disentangling herself from Quinn and reaching carefully for her, fingers tangling against her, tugging her with surprisingly gentleness away from Quinn and Mercedes. “Or there is an explanation that doesn’t involve Ms. Lopez being a complete asshole,” she says, voice oddly tight in a way Brittany hasn’t heard before. She pulls again, keeping Brittany’s focus on her. “But right now, that is not the focus. Ms. Pierce, I promise you, Santana Lopez is safe. There was only one group of kidnappers, and for the moment, their only target was Ms. Fabray.” 

It’s almost silly, the way Superwoman is trying so desperately to reassure her. Brittany sucks in an unsteady breath, and looks again on those gorgeous brown eyes and perfect face. “How do you know that?” she asks, and immediately hates herself for the way her voice threatens to crack. 

But those fingers just tangle against hers, until their hands are swinging between them like children. It’s so comfortably familiar it makes Brittany ache. “Hey,” Superwoman whispers, with a sweet, simple grin. “How many times have I saved your life?” 

Brittany’s mouth twitches with unwilling affection. “Four,” she admits. Four times she’s been caught when she’s fallen. Four times Superwoman has been there when Santana Lopez hasn’t. Four times Superwoman has proven herself steadfast, loyal, and dependable. 

The opposite of Santana Lopez. Just today, Santana held her fingers just like this and told Brittany that she was here for her, no one else. 

And yet, once again, there is no Santana. In her place is Superwoman, who bestows on her a reassuring smile that curves onto those gorgeous lips, so easy and sweet. “Then give me a little bit of credit.” 

God… Brittany wishes she had given her all the credit to begin with. 

If and when she ever finds Santana again, there will be no dance. And they will not be partners. Not now. 

Brittany’s heart, and more importantly, Brittany’s CAREER, can’t afford it. 

She takes her strength from Superwoman, from those slender, comfortable digits and the way they thumb purposefully against hers. “You better be right,” she says quiet. 

“Of course I’m right.” Those dark eyes sparkle at her beautifully. “It’s kinda my thing.” The words strike a pang deep inside of her. “But I need the help of the star reporter of the Daily Planet.” 

God, the irony how even hours ago, that would be enough for Brittany fall into a state of catatonic, blissful shock? 

Currently, all her bruised and battered heart can do is thump painfully. 

“Right,” she breathes, and remembers again the two other people in the hallway. With a deep breath in, she turns and untangles her hands from Superwoman, ready to work. “Mercedes, you need to call the police, and talk to Blaine.” 

Blaine Anderson is Mercedes dapper, sneaky-gay head of security. He is a tiny hobbit-looking handsome little guy with dark brown curls and a charming smile, and oddly enough, serious fighting skills that he honed in his prep school’s secret fighting club that he is supposed to not talk about and does anyway. 

He takes his job seriously, and would honestly give his life for Sam and Mercedes. Brittany suspects it has more to do with the fact that Blaine has a not-so-hidden unrequited gay boner for Sam than actual work ethic, but the devil is in the details. 

“Of course,” Mercedes says, and already has her phone out to dial. 

Beside her, Superwoman speaks up. “I’m so sorry that your evening has been interrupted to this degree, Ms. Jones, but right now we need to halt the party and begin the process of questioning every guest.” 

“You really know how to throw a gala, don’t you Mercedes?” Quinn twitters, and Mercedes just ignores her. 

“Of course,” Mercedes nods, eyes instead on Brittany and Superwoman. “Whatever you need, Superwoman. I want to catch these sons-of-bitches. I don’t care who you are, you don’t come to my house and try to steal anything.” Her nostrils flare, a testament to her anger, before her eyes float to the shaken debutant who leans back against the hallway wall. “Even her,” she adds. 

The distaste is obvious. 

“Thanks,” Quinn mutters dryly. 

“Don’t thank me,” Mercedes mutters darkly, with such venom Brittany almost smiles. “It’s just rude, is all.” 

“I managed to detain three of the men,” Superwoman says, stepping between the two woman in a transparent attempt to dissolve the tension. “However they all need medical attention and I want to keep an eye on them. Ms. Jones, can you please take Ms. Fabray and make sure she gets checked out?” 

For her part, Mercedes looks as though she’s just been asked to swallow a goldfish, but she nods stoically. “Sure,” she sighs and reaches out to gently take Quinn from Superwoman’s hold. 

Gay Fabray, for her part, looks no more enthused. “I told you I was fine,” she grumbles. “Can I please just go home?” 

“You’re NOT fine, Quinn,” Superwoman snaps, and her tone is so familiar that Brittany can’t help but be thrown by it. “You probably have a concussion. Go with Ms. Jones, and don’t leave her side until I come back for you. Whoever did this is probably still around.” Her eyes once again fall upon Brittany. “Work with the police, tell them what I told you. And have them meet me.” 

She’s dismissing them. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Brittany asks, because she’s not ready for that yet. 

Superwoman stalls, hesitating as she glances back to the direction she and Quinn came from. “I have three thugs to question.” 

“Then I’m going with you.” It’s not a question. 

Superwoman’s eyes go wide, and Mercedes, currently hobbled with an armful of Quinn Fabray, does her best to give her a murmured, “Girl, now is not the time to get your flirt on-“ 

Brittany’s shoulders roll with an exaggerated huff. “One of Metropolis’ most influential debutants was almost kidnapped and we have the guys that did it, primed and ready to be interviewed,” she explains with a clipped, calm tone. “This is the perfect time.”

Superwoman stares, fingers clenching as she absorbs that. 

“You’re thinking about a story at a time like this?” It’s Quinn, and Brittany ignores her. Her focus remains on Superwoman, strong and steady as those dark eyes rake over her, study her intensely. 

“She wouldn’t be Brittany Pierce if she didn’t,” the other woman says finally, with such a knowing, resigned sigh that Brittany can’t help but smile, just a bit. 

“You said you needed my help,” she reminds her. “I’m a good interrogator. I can ask those men the right questions and get you answers faster than you can and with half the violence.” 

Superwoman purses her lips. “And by helping me you get your exclusive?” she asks, because Superwoman isn’t stupid. 

And neither is Brittany. Carefully, she steps forward, one foot in front of the other, until she’s only a foot away from Superwoman, entirely in her space. “Isn’t helping me out kinda your thing?” she whispers, low and for her ears only. 

Dark eyes search her own, but Brittany feels it – that connection that tells her that Superwoman isn’t nearly as unflappable as she appears.

She has abs of steel, but she’s a woman.

And Brittany’s baby blues do their job. 

“You can have five minutes before the police come, but you’re not allowed to touch them,” Superwoman says finally, and Brittany’s grin widens. “And I’ll be with you at all times.” 

“That’s no problem.” 

“Oh, I bet it’s not,” she hears Mercedes sigh, and pretends not to.

Instead, she remembers her phone, and the voicemail she left for Santana Lopez. Brittany’s smile falters, and she forces herself to swallow hard and turn back to Quinn Fabray. “If you hear from her,” she begins, as civil as she can considering the circumstances. “Can you please let me know she’s okay?” 

Quinn inhales unsteadily. After a moment, she nods. 

A strong, gentle hand presses lightly at her elbow. Brittany’s head lifts. 

All Superwoman says is, “Follow me.” 

For a moment, Brittany wonders at this beautiful stranger, who dresses in blue and red spandex and flies around a strange city to rescue debutantes and comfort broken-hearted reporters. This superhero who lives a life of service, who has no real name, and no real connections; who flies off into the unknown and only appears when needed. 

She wonders what kind of life she leads. 

She wonders who comforts Superwoman when she’s disappointed. 

She wonders, quite possibly for the first time, who Superwoman is when the spandex falls away. 

Brittany suddenly desperately wishes she knew. 

But Superwoman keeps going, and Brittany, who must prepare herself to interrogate three prisoners before the police come and remove her from the scene, has no room to think of anything other than the story. 

It’s a good thing, actually. 

This way, she doesn't have to think about Santana.


End file.
